


my heart is with you hiding

by soul_of_spades



Category: She-Ra and the Princesses of Power (2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Post-Apocalypse, Blood and Injury, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/F, Fluff and Angst, Human Catra (She-Ra), Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Mutual Pining, POV Alternating, Shadow Weaver | Light Spinner (She-Ra)'s A+ Parenting, Slow Burn, Trust Issues, a little soft on the "enemies" part but it'll make sense, sorry but no zombies
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-04
Updated: 2020-09-17
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:00:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 27,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26293015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soul_of_spades/pseuds/soul_of_spades
Summary: Adora is shaking, nothing but frayed nerves. "H-Hey," she whispers. She carefully adjusts her hold to turn the girl over in her arms, searching for a face. "I've got you, don't worry."The girl looks up at her again, and it's just as she thought. Mismatched eyes, one blue and one goldish-brown, look straight through her, too groggy to show a hint of recognition, but they'rehersall the same. And shit, there really is a knife sticking out of her stomach."C-Catra?" she tries unsteadily, eyes brimming with tears.She gets a small, pained smile in return. "H-Hey... Adora."The ghost of her best friend falls limp in her arms.(Adora and Catra reunite six years after a bad falling out in a dying world ravaged by extreme weather and rampant disease. Can they learn to come together again when dire circumstances try so desperately to pull them apart?)
Relationships: Adora/Catra (She-Ra), Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 97
Kudos: 234





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is mostly set-up, world building, introductions, and Adora brooding like the sad little gay she is, but it's worth it, I promise. I'm also a sap for one-on-one Best Friend Squad interactions - which will include Catra, soon - so there's that. 
> 
> Huge shout-out to [sevensevan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sevensevan) for looking over this chapter and telling me it's not garbage. If you haven't already, you gotta check out his catradora fic [the roots that sleep](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25097119/chapters/60797878) \- it's an amazing college au, 10/10. 
> 
> Also, if you're curious, you can read the inspiration for this fic "Where Would You Be Now" [here](https://www.tor.com/2018/02/07/where-would-you-be-now-carrie-vaughn/) \- it inspired the setting and the opening scenes and happens to have a lesbian couple, but my story diverges from there.

Adora perches on the tailgate of the old pick-up, legs dangling, shotgun heavy in her hands—the kind of heavy that knows she might have to shoot somebody if things go sideways. She scrunches up her nose, inhaling the sweet but overwhelming scent of gasoline. Her only company in the bed of the truck is the collection of gas cans for their fifty mile trek back home. 

As the armed guard, her eyes search the dark for danger, for anything—or _anyone—_ that might try to hurt them. She absorbs her environment and takes inventory: head count, weapons, exits, just anything that seems important to keep track of.

According to her friends, she’s wound pretty tight, too paranoid for her own good. _You seriously need to relax sometimes,_ they keep telling her. Over and over again. If she had a nickel for every time they said that—well, she'd be rich if, you know, the world wasn't a total dumpster fire. 

Adora _tap, tap, taps_ her fingers on the shotgun barrel resting on her knee and clenches her jaw. She's just afraid that the second she lets her guard down someone will get hurt or _worse_. Instinctively, the tapping stops and her grip on her weapon tightens as her eyes keep searching, waiting.

They’re surrounded by a cluster of RVs that make a tight half circle in a small clearing in the woods, only one way in and one way out. The pick-up is parked in the mouth with the tailgate facing in; it’ll make driving off in a hurry easy if necessary. In the middle, a fire spits embers, barely a crackle. Most of the community—twenty people, she counted—have gone to bed, entirely numb to their presence.

She can't blame them, really. The Brightmoon Clinic has been making "house calls" to this camp for a little over a year now. She and her companions have slowly become nothing more than background noise to these people—which isn't exactly a _good_ thing, being deemed frequent flyers, but that's tea she doesn't feel like spilling right now.

Familiar or not, Adora stays on high alert. She swivels in her seat to get a panoramic view of the camp, eyes squinting suspiciously at every little noise. Doctors are a rare commodity nowadays, and she'd be damned if someone tried something on her watch and put her friends in danger. Out of nerves, she raises her shotgun into a shooting position.

Her focus breaks to the sound of chickens clucking, drawing her eye to a small makeshift pen off the back of an RV. She blinks and drops her aim. A little boy stands alone by the wire netting, studying her, completely swallowed whole by the shirt he wears. His sad, sunken eyes scream hunger and malnutrition. 

Adora shrinks away from his stare and faces forward. Her gut twists at the realization that another little one is about to be brought into this world, and that they’d be lucky to even see their first birthday; any more than that, and they’ll inevitably waste away into skin and bone like the boy.

 _It’s a cruel, cruel world,_ she thinks sadly. And you can’t save everyone. It’s a lesson she’s still trying to teach herself after five years of watching people come and go. 

A shrill, insistent wail suddenly cuts through the air, announcing new life. Adora smiles softly to herself despite her grim thoughts and starts counting under her breath. Before she hits nine, one of the trailer doors slams open and a figure in a pink hoodie rushes down the steps. 

“Glimmer!” a voice calls from the trailer, pitched high and proper, but it’s eclipsed by the sound of her friend hurling in the bushes. 

“Wow,” Adora says, grinning. “That has to be a new record. You almost hit ten seconds that time.” 

“I will shoot you with your own gun,” Glimmer growls. She throws her finger up in the air for emphasis—and Adora can't help but applaud her self restraint for using her pointer finger—but the threat falls flat when she retches again. 

Glimmer is, well, how should she put this? She is brave, caring, and loyal to a fault; small but mighty, and full of fire and fury if you get on her bad side. You’d never know at first glance, though. The purplish-pink hair, baby face cheeks, and pastel-heavy wardrobe work well to hide her smart mouth and red hot temper. The only person who really knows how to smooth over her rough edges is Bow, but he stayed back at the clinic to help with repairs.

Without him, Glimmer might actually shoot her. Her inner-Bow says she _would never,_ but Adora isn't completely convinced. 

Even so, she still has the guts to laugh. “You’re the one who volunteered to help your mom with deliveries. What was it that you said before? Oh, yeah"—she squares her shoulders and does her best Glimmer impression— _"I'd be in medical school right now if the world hadn't turned into one big shitstorm."_

Adora and her friends have this habit of asking each other “where would you be if the world hadn’t ended?” like a game. Or, if she’s being completely honest with herself, like a messed up coping mechanism. Sure, it’s become redundant after five years. Answers repeat themselves and the sentiment loses its charm. But when they’re in a good mood (or mildly intoxicated), the answers take a wild turn that never ceases to put a smile on her face. Like Bow saying he’d be a crop top prostitute and Glimmer his pimp, for example— _priceless._

This particular callback strikes a nerve, though, if the acorn launched at her forehead is any tell. 

“You try watching a melon-sized head pop out of a vagina!” Glimmer yells, face impossibly red, rivaling the rusted paint job on the truck. 

Adora cringes; first at the lanterns that flicker on and off in the neighboring RVs at the loud declaration, and then at the mental image that sears into her brain against her will. God, is she thankful that she’s hopelessly attracted to women. It makes the question of _if_ and _when_ she’ll get pregnant an easy one— _never_. Not that she's actively dating or hooking up with anyone. Since society crumbled, finding "the one" hasn't exactly been a priority.

The one got away years ago, anyway. 

She mentally pinches herself. Her point is: she'll never bring a child into this dying world if she can help it. It feels irresponsible and cruel. 

Glimmer groans into her hands, wiping the spit from her mouth. “I wanted to be an orthopedic surgeon, _not_ an obstetrician. I don’t do babies, Adora. I just… I wanted to help.” 

Adora reaches out to clasp her shoulder, squeezing gently. “I know, and I’m sure your mom is grateful. We all are.” Personally, she knows that if she could do more than just pull a trigger, she would in a heartbeat. She’d do anything to give _more,_ to help. The thought of not doing enough is what keeps her up at night.

Glimmer smiles faintly, her ire waning like the embers flickering in the fire pit. Adora smiles back. As the designated "punch-your-feelings-out" guy, she feels a swell of pride flourish in her chest knowing she cheered up Glimmer without directing her to the nearest punching bag. Bow would be so proud. 

“Glimmer, if you’re quite finished, I could use your help in here,” her mother, Angella, says pointedly from the doorway. 

“Coming!”

Glimmer leaves Adora alone in the dark with the gasping fire, her spiel about nursing the baby, postpartum healing, and contraceptives likely on the tip of her tongue. In reality, they’d be out here again in a few months, whether to check on the newborn or to deliver another one. It's a cycle that never seems to end.

She sighs and adjusts her gun in her hands, stretching out her back. The stars shine above like sparkling freckles against a pitch black sky. There's no sound except for the frogs and crickets and the nervous chatter happening back inside the RV. It's peaceful, like a scene out of a crappy teen movie with a forest campfire and scary storytelling. It's... painfully nostalgic. 

_Where would you be if the world hadn’t ended?_

Without giving it a second thought, Adora supplies an answer she’s never shared before, one that makes her heart shrivel up in her chest.

_I’d be with her._

* * *

The ride back is quiet initially, the mood somber. Angella drives, Glimmer sits in the middle where the center console is lifted up, and Adora rides, quite literally, _shotgun_ —but that joke stopped being funny years ago. 

Angella and Glimmer are still sulking over the baby. Glimmer twiddles her thumbs in her lap, head hanging low, while Angella stares out at the road with a glossy film over her eyes. _Five months,_ she said. _Based on the condition of that camp, I give that little one five months at most._ Glimmer had sighed, frowning in a way that said she agreed. But unlike Angella, there’s a fire burning in her, an anger that wants to lash out and sock the father of that newborn in the jaw. He had laughed in her face when she tried to convince him to start using protection. 

_"You think I got the time to go 'shopping' for some condoms? That's a load of horse shit and you know it. 'Sides, shouldn't we be thinking about repopulating or somethin'?"_

Glimmer very nearly killed him on the spot and her mother had to step in, but not before she snapped and called the man's pull out game _weak—_

“Perhaps you shouldn’t assist me next time,” Angella says to break the silence, her voice a mixture of sympathy and authority. Where Adora normally hears genuine motherly concern, Glimmer almost always hears the opposite. 

“I can _handle_ it,” she grits out. 

Adora sighs. Here they go again. 

“What the hell are you huffing about?"

"Glimmer, language," Angella scolds, face pinched. 

In response, Glimmer throws up her hands and lets them fall dramatically back in her lap. "Mom, I'm twenty-one years old. Like, _seriously?"_ She then shoots Adora a look that says she still wants an answer to her first question.

Adora squirms in her seat, feeling Glimmer's glare take aim at her like a heat-seeking missile. If she wants to make it back home in one piece, she'll have to smooth things over. _Play it cool,_ she tells herself. They still have at least a half hour's drive left, and the last thing she needs is a grouchy Glimmer and an exasperated Angella at each other's throats.

"Uh," she coughs into her fist. "I mean, I didn't say anything. I'm just... peachy. No problems here." She mentally slaps herself— _idiot._

_"God, stop thinking so hard, Adora. Just say what you want.”_

The ghost of that voice whispers straight through her, a little scratchy, always so demanding, but the warmth hidden underneath all the snark is enough to make her heart soar up into her throat. But then she buries it back it down before any repressed feelings can bloom into depressive thoughts.

“Ugh, Adora—”

Adora reaches back behind the seats to grab a knapsack, rambling nervously, "Oh, look, stuff." She pulls out an old bottle of Elmer's, staring at it quizzically. "They traded us... glue. How nice." Her smile must look like she has clothespins pinching her cheeks.

Glimmer chuckles. "Adora, I love you, but you can't play it cool to save your life."

"Gah, tell me about it." She vaguely remembers telling Bow and Glimmer that she maybe could've been an actress if the world hadn't ended—as an "out there" answer after a drink or two—and they both laughed until they cried, citing plenty of evidence on why that would _never_ happen. She's godawful at charades. She's a terrible liar. Her poker face resembles a dying animal caught in a trap. Actually, that last point stung a little. She can keep a straight face when it counts. 

At the end of the day, she's made Glimmer laugh and helped ease the mother-daughter tension. Angella sends Adora a soft smile behind Glimmer's back that speaks volumes.

"Mom, stop the car!" 

The poor pick-up lurches back, skidding harshly on the pavement. Adora braces with her knees against the glove compartment until the truck jerks to a rattled stop. She curses under her breath for getting distracted so easily. Then she flips a switch in her head, drone-like, and her protective instincts start kicking in. She's out the door the second the dust settles with Glimmer and Angella calling after her. The adrenaline pumping in her ears drowns out their voices, keeps her focused.

She aims to shoot but freezes, her finger a breath away from pulling the trigger.

Three children stand out in front of the truck holding hands, only a few feet shy from getting run over; the headlights spotlight their panic-stricken faces. They’re all thin, with hollowed out cheeks and dark rims under their eyes. No shoes, baggy clothes, and covered in grime like they haven't bathed in weeks. Two boys, one blond and the other buzzed, and a brave girl with a braided undercut who steps out from between them. She fixes Adora with a hard stare. It’s a stare that says _try me,_ and Adora can’t help but admire the girl’s guts.

She lowers her gun, kneeling down to get on their level. "Are you guys okay?"

No answer. 

"Um," Adora bites her lip, eyes searching the wood line. "Are you alone?"

"She told us to stand here and wait," says the girl. “Said you’d take care of us. So, you gonna help us or not?”

Her voice tries to sound strong, unfazed, but Adora doesn’t miss the tremor in it. The blond boy grips her pant leg while the other takes the hand she’s clenched into a fist. Adora thinks they’re anywhere from eight to ten years old, tops. Brave kids—they really took a chance by standing out here in the middle of the road at night. 

"Who told you that?"

The girl narrows her eyes while the blond boy speaks up. "Please, won't you help us?"

Adora tenses. She couldn't possibly say no to that face, but it's not her call. _You can't save everyone,_ she reminds herself. Even if it hurts. Even if it kills you. And boy, would turning her back on these kids really do a number on her. 

_"You left **me** , Adora! So quit pretending like this isn't all your fault."_

The harsh echo of those words—filled with so much pain, so much anger—knocks the wind out of her sails. She buries her face in the crook of her elbow for a moment and slowly glides her arm across her forehead, pretending to wipe away a trail of sweat. Anything to hide the quiet agony in her eyes threatening to spill over into the rest of her face.

"You've got to be kidding me," Glimmer cuts in, strutting up to where Adora kneels on the ground. The boys shrink away while the girl just turns her glare on Glimmer. "People are so awful, I swear. Dumping kids on the side of the road and asking them to play chicken with cars? That's a new kind of low."

Adora clears her throat loudly, giving Glimmer a look. The message seems to get through. These kids don't need a reminder that they'd just been abandoned.

Glimmer's laugh is choppy, self conscious even, as she rubs the back of her neck. "Sorry about that, I can get a little carried away sometimes." 

Adora rolls her eyes. _Just a little?_

Glimmer elbows Adora in the side as if to say _I saw that,_ earning her a snort from the stone-faced girl. 

"Don't mind Adora, she's harmless." Adora groans on cue. "You wanna tell us your names? Mine's Glimmer, which is... weird, I know, but I'm a friend. You're safe with us."

The girl seems to size them up before she visibly relaxes. "I'm Lonnie. These are Kyle and Rogelio. I don't go nowhere without'em." 

Glimmer smiles. "You take care of them, don't you?"

Lonnie nods. 

There's something achingly familiar about the way Lonnie acts as a shield for the boys, looking out for them, promising to keep them safe. It scratches an itch at the back of her mind that she thought was scabbed over. 

_"You promise?"_

She inhales sharply, shaking her head. 

"Well then, it's settled." Glimmer rests her hands on her hips and puffs out her chest, mimicking a superhero's pose. "You're coming back with us."

Adora lets out a breath of relief. Leaving them behind would've broken something in her. She's already shattered enough as is, her broken pieces tentatively glued back together again only because her friends refused to give up on her. And for that, she is eternally grateful (and terrified she'll one day disappoint them and prove she was never worth the trouble).

Lonnie smiles softly and nods. The blond boy, Kyle, bursts into tears like he's been holding them back the entire time. The quiet one, Rogelio, rubs Kyle's shoulders to try and comfort him, his expression unreadable. Such an odd little trio, but Adora must admit: they're already starting to grow on her.

Glimmer looks back at the truck where her mother stands, waiting. Angella sighs.

"We don't have much room," she reasons weakly. "But we'll make do." 

Glimmer grins, soaking in the win like she just won the lottery—which, in truth, she kind of did, so to speak. "I'll ride in the back with them." Before Angella can object, she lifts up her sweatshirt to show off a revolver tucked into her jeans. "I can take care of myself, mom. I'm not a little kid anymore." 

Adora's hand pancakes against her face. Honestly, it doesn't surprise her that Glimmer stole a gun from the armory. She loves to find new ways to get under her mother's skin, tapping into that rebellious phase she never got to have as an only child with a cookie-cutter life. Was it stupid? _Yes._ But it seems pretty on-brand for her at this point. It kind of reminds her of Ca—

She slams the brakes on that thought. Shoves it into a box, locks it, and throws away the key. A tiny voice in her head that sounds oddly like her friend Perfuma reminds her that compartmentalizing her grief like this is unhealthy, but it's the only way Adora knows how. If she buries these thoughts down deep enough, they can't hurt her. She keeps living, keeps surviving. She moves on. 

Just another one of her messed up coping mechanisms.

Angella's gaze could melt ice. "We are going to talk about this, Glimmer."

"Yeah, yeah." She waves her hand dismissively as she walks around the truck and pulls down the tailgate. _"Later._ I know the drill."

Adora awkwardly shuffles over to join Glimmer, helping her usher the kids into the bed of the truck. The second Angella slams her door and is out of earshot, she pinches Glimmer's side.

"Ow! What was that for?"

"Are you trying to piss her off?" she whisper-yells.

Glimmer shrugs. "What can I say? It's a gift." 

_Slap._ Adora must have a red hand print on her forehead by now. "How'd you even break into the armory, anyway? Only a few of us have keys."

"Oh, my poor, sweet Adora," Glimmer sing-songs, pulling a set of keys out of her pocket. "You've still got a lot to learn."

Adora squints at the keys Glimmer jingles in front of her face. "Wait a second." That keychain—it has her initials on it. "Those are _my_ keys!" 

Glimmer's smile is so annoyingly smug, that Adora has half a mind to strangle her. Except there are children watching, and she should—no, she _will_ take the high road to set a better example, even if the idea of wiping that smile off Glimmer’s face is very, _very_ tempting. Her inner-Bow shuns her for even considering it.

Instead, she puts all of her frustration into snatching back the keys, a little disappointed when Glimmer doesn't bite. She just lets Adora have them, no fuss, her cheeky grin still intact.

"How did you...?"

"You keep them tucked away in your boot. Not exactly an original hiding spot." Glimmer wrinkles her nose. "Or a sanitary one."

"My feet don't smell," Adora pouts. She bends over to stuff her keys back inside her boot before catching herself, her eyes shooting up to meet Glimmer's amused ones. Adora's narrow defiantly. She straightens with a huff and shoves the keys in her back jean's pocket to make a statement. 

"Hey, can I ask you something?"

Adora raises a brow, surprised at Glimmer's shift in tone. "Uh, yeah. Shoot."

"You kept making a face tonight," she says carefully, like her voice is tip-toeing around shards of glass. "You seemed... I don't know, just really sad. Heartbroken, even."

Adora can't help the way her face falls. She tries to steel herself, to wear a mask to hide it, but in the end she just can't bury her feelings down deep enough. 

"If something's wrong, you know you can talk to me, right?" 

Her smile is forced. "I know, but nothing's wrong." At Glimmer's skeptical look, she sighs and adds, "I'm just thinking too much about before, about... someone I used to know." She can't tell if the censorship was for the kids, or for her own sake. 

Glimmer's eyes shine with the kind of pity that says she knows exactly what— _who_ —Adora's talking about, but before she can open her mouth Adora cuts her off. "I really don't want to talk about it right now." Her fingers tap anxiously against her shotgun stock. "I'm just having a bad night, that's all." 

Adora gasps when Glimmer pulls her into a hug, completely unprepared. 

"That's okay. I'll be here when you're ready."

There's a short pause to let those words sink in. Like, really sink in, deeply. 

She can't detect any underlying hurt or ulterior motive in her friend’s voice because Glimmer _means it,_ and she knows Adora’s crappy childhood twisted how she processes things like “affection”, “praise”, and “moral support”. She genuinely cares, not about what Adora can do for her, but about Adora _herself._ Her boundaries, her feelings, her well-being. Even after four and a half years Adora still isn't used to it. 

"So is Bow, but you knew that already."

Adora doesn't know if she'll ever be ready to tell them everything—because knowing of _her_ isn’t the same as having the full story—but she humors Glimmer by hugging her back. "Thank you." 

"No problem."

When they separate, Glimmer makes a move to climb over the tailgate. Adora stops her, holding out her hand expectantly. Glimmer stares blankly at her; then, when it clicks, she looks affronted, wearing a face that screams _how dare you_ while Adora's eyes nearly roll out of her skull. She curls her fingers into her hand tauntingly. 

"Give it." She keeps her tone flat, even as a knowing grin splits her face.

Glimmer groans and, with some coaxing, fishes out Adora's keys and drops them into her waiting palm. "I thought we were having a moment."

"We were. I'm just not dumb." Her grin grows wider as she waggles her eyebrows. "Are you that handsy when you're hugging Bow?"

The hard shove she earns is totally worth it. 

"Ugh, shut up!" Glimmer snaps, her cheeks swelling with pink. "You're literally the worst."

Adora laughs so hard she snorts. "Aw, you're blushing."

Glimmer expertly manages to flip her the bird as she crawls between gas cans, kicking one back at her for good measure. "Fill'er up, asshole."

"Aye-aye, captain," Adora says with a mock-solute. She pockets her keys and picks up the gas can, smiling foolishly. Glimmer's face is a slab of stone with a chiseled straight line for a mouth, but Adora doesn't miss the way her eye twitches. She winks at her and stares back while reaching for the fuel cap, awkwardly feeling up the side of the truck before she finally unlatches it. 

_"You're such an idiot."_

Adora tries not to pull a face. As she sets up to refuel, she's suddenly aware of a pair of eyes watching her that don't belong to Glimmer.

"Hey, Adora?"

She picks up her head, surprised to find Lonnie leaning over the truck bed. Her eyes are less sharp, more curious—sad, even. The chip on her shoulder has lost its bite. 

"Hey, what's up?" Adora answers, offering the girl half a smile. 

"I'm sorry," she says. Her eyes flicker between Adora's face and her finger chipping away at rusted paint. "About the person you used to know."

Adora's blood runs cold at Lonnie's quiet condolences. For a second, she forgets how to breathe, how to pretend that everything's fine—because she is _fine,_ damn it. Even if it feels like her chest is about to collapse in on itself. Truth is, she's been piling dirt on top of a grave buried deep inside her mind all day but its contents keep clawing their way out without her say so. 

"We all got people we used to know," Lonnie continues, sounding far beyond her years. "And it hurts 'cause they're gone and you're not, and you just wanna see them again so bad." Her eyes are laser-focused on the cracked paint she's working on, prickling with tears, until she wipes them away and looks up at Adora. "Will it hurt less when I'm bigger?"

"I..." Adora's throat is clogged, her heart the likely culprit. She tries to swallow it down and nearly chokes. 

"What's the hold up back there?" Angella calls from the driver's side window. Her voice is a mixture of authority and bitterness now, no doubt still caught up in Glimmer's act of defiance. Adora's never been more thankful for an interruption in her life. 

Lonnie ducks back down into her seat, startled. 

"Adora's dragging her feet, that's what," Glimmer replies flippantly. The urge to strangle her comes back but Adora squashes it down. She pushes everything down, down, _down._

"Yeah, yeah. Almost done." Adora finishes up and throws the empty gas can in the back with the others. Then, with a quick sideways glance at Glimmer—one that says _look at what I get to ride with and it's all your fault_ —she climbs into the cab and shuts the door behind her. 

Her answer to Lonnie's question settles on the tip of her tongue like a tiny prick from something sharp and unforgiving. A hard, crippling, heavy-hearted **no.**

They drive off into the night. 

* * *

When they roll up to Brightmoon Clinic, Adora feels relatively settled back into her own skin. Nothing is clawing its way out. There's no voice echoing in her head to pull on her heartstrings with a teasing lilt and an airy laugh. She pats the dirt down on the grave rooted in her brain and looks down on it, resigned but satisfied. She is finally in control.

"That's... home?" the blond boy, Kyle, asks shakily. Adora smiles a little at his shocked expression in her side mirror.

She can only catch bits and pieces of the conversation through the rear window glass behind her head, but she guesses that Glimmer's already started rambling on about Brightmoon and all it has to offer them: food, medicine, running water, security, a place to sleep with both eyes closed. A safe haven, she'll call it. As if taking in strangers like this is common courtesy—but they both know that's a lie.

"Wow," echoes Lonnie, and Adora wishes she could see the girl's awe-stricken face, too. 

The clinic is by no means a five star hotel. It's small, compact, with only one main floor and a basement. Most of the camp actually sleeps outside in tents, reserving the clinic for the sick, the injured, and the young; it'd be a tight fit, otherwise. But Adora knows that its perks more than make up for its size. The lights stay on, the tap water runs, and the medical equipment works when they need it to—all compliments of Bow’s ingenuity and commitment to round-the-clock maintenance. 

For security, they've surrounded the parking lot and nearby field with a barricade of junker cars and paneled fencing they built themselves. The front "gate" is a flatbed trailer with miscellaneous junk piled up to act as cover. Next to it sits an old mail truck—their de-facto watchtower. 

Adora rolls down her window and signals to the guard on duty. Mermista, it looks like. She's sprawled out on a beach chair with a little LED flashlight balanced on her chest and an open book in her lap, completely enthralled. Not once do her eyes flick up to catch Adora’s signal. All of her focus is zeroed in on the worn paperback in her hands. At her feet, her rifle gathers dust and seems purposely forgotten.

Adora rolls her eyes. She considers radioing in on her walkie, but on a whim she reaches to honk the horn instead. It takes all her willpower not to laugh when Mermista jumps and shouts, "Oh my god, you _asshole!"_

In Adora's defense, it's not like they crept up on her. How sneaky could you be with flashing headlights and noisy tire tread picking up all kinds of dirt and gravel? 

"Must be some book, Mermista!" Glimmer calls out to her, sounding smug. "Do you mind letting us in? And, y'know, doing your job?"

After the longest groan ever recorded in human history, Mermista answers, "I mean, I guess."

Others come out to help Mermista move the flatbed trailer, including Adora. Glimmer elects to stay with the kids and Adora decides not to hold that against her—the trailer isn't that heavy, anyway. The truck pulls in, and the trailer is quickly tucked back into its spot. She chains it up and locks it into place with the rest of the fencing.

Angella cuts the engine and steps out of the truck. "Mermista, you can't keep watch and read at the same time." Her words are exhausted, filled to the brim with an anxiety Adora is all too familiar with. "That kind of ignorance could've put people in danger." 

"Bow finished hooking up the perimeter cameras or whatever," Mermista replies while she picks at her nails. "So really, it was extra of me to even be on watch."

"You can never be too careful," Angella insists. "Not after—" Her words die in her throat, ending in a sharp intake of breath, and a collective shudder washes over the rest of the group. Everyone knows what she meant to say but no one dares speak it into existence.

What happened to Micah is still a sore subject for all of them.

Her eyes instinctively find Glimmer as she sits on the edge of the tailgate. A shadow falls over her friend's face, but it’s fleeting, replaced quickly with a look of practiced indifference. 

Adora's teeth start worrying into her bottom lip. It’s subconscious, triggered when her anxiety spikes. She almost bit clean through once as a kid, but that was more so a reaction than a nervous tick. She really couldn't help it when she walked in on Ms. Weaver using her belt on—

No, _stop it._ She gently knocks her fist against her forehead. Time to pile more dirt on the grave. 

"Yeah, I know," Mermista says, unusually soft, before she grimaces and slumps her shoulders forward in way that tells Adora she's thinking about a certain somebody. "Seahawk _was_ keeping me company. He just left to get me some water, which was... I don't know, fifteen minutes ago? Ugh, he probably got sidetracked, _again._ What a loser." 

"Hmm," Glimmer clicks her tongue. "Aren't you dating this loser?" 

Mermista shrugs. "I honestly have no words."

"Glimmer, Adora!" a voice calls, bursting at the seams with enough joy and pep to rival the effects of an old-world espresso shot. 

Glimmer's face lights up. "Bow!"

Adora smiles fondly as Bow rushes up to them, sporting his trademark crop top and blue jeans ensemble with his long bow and quiver strapped to his back. He goes to Glimmer first and lifts her off the tailgate into a bone-crushing hug. Glimmer squeaks, then laughs, and it's as if her prickly attitude from tonight evaporates into thin air. Bow has always had that kind of affect on her. 

Behind them, Adora notes that Angella's face softens from despair into something more like relief, maybe even delight. 

"Everybody's good, right?" Bow asks as he puts her down, eyeing them both warily. He then pulls Adora into a hug, mumbling into her shoulder, "Like, your gun's fully loaded, right?"

"Bow, we're _fine,"_ Glimmer answers, waving him off. "I mean, Adora almost shot at a group of kids, but then she didn't, so no big deal. Nothing to write home about."

Bow startles out of their embrace, shrieking, "She _what?!"_

"Glimmer!" That's it, Adora wants to strangle her again. Like, seriously? Her delivery could've used a lot more tact. Now she really sounded like Ca—

 _Nope._ That thought is officially cancelled. 

"Like I said, she didn't," Glimmer says matter-of-factly, trying and failing to smother her little grin. "And now we have some new friends."

"New friends?"

Glimmer nods and hooks her arms over the bed of the truck. "Hey, guys." Lonnie, Kyle, and Rogelio huddle closer together, eyes wide with fear now that Glimmer's shined a spotlight on them. "It's okay, nobody's going to hurt you. We're all friends here." 

Adora is caught off guard when Lonnie's eyes land on her, as if she's asking if what Glimmer said is true. Her grip on the boys is tight, her eyes pleading— _are we safe, is this real?_ Adora just stares back, a little dazed, before nodding slowly. 

Apparently, Adora reacted correctly, because Lonnie takes a deep breath and starts helping the boys off the truck. 

Next to her, Bow whispers as discreetly as he can (which is to say not at all), "Oh wow, you _bonded._ That's so cute." 

Adora crosses her arms, still unsure. "I mean, I guess?" It's not like she did anything to deserve Lonnie's trust. Unless... 

_"Will it hurt less when I'm bigger?"_

Adora curls into herself more and shivers, ready to blame it on the crisp spring air if someone asks. Her old high school varsity jacket can't shield her from this kind of chill, though. 

"You guys are going to love it here," Glimmer says excitedly, clapping her hands together. The kids don't seem to share her enthusiasm, but they still look up to her like they're lost and desperate to be found. "I'll help you get settled, and then we'll—"

"Glimmer." At her mother's tone of voice, Glimmer completely deflates. "Bow will help our new guests settle in. You and I still need to talk." 

"But mom, I—"

"No buts." Glimmer huffs and kicks at some loose gravel while Angella redirects her attention to everyone else. "Mermista, return to your station, and please... no more mystery novels." Mermista sighs and nods, dragging her feet back to the watchtower. "And Bow, I trust that our guests are in capable hands."

Bow smiles brightly and pumps his fist in the air."You can count on me, ma'am!"

Angella returns his smile and turns to face her. "Adora"—she naturally stands at attention when called upon, ready to receive her next assignment—"get some rest, please. I know you're exhausted." 

Adora wilts, because she knows Angella's right—she _is_ running on fumes—but sleep feels like a trap lying in wait for her. Even while awake, she can still hear _her_ voice, feel _her_ anger, see _her_ mismatched eyes and cocky smirk. She doesn't want to imagine what it'd be like to fall asleep right now and expose herself to everything she's tried to push away. The girl waiting for her in her dreams doesn't sound very forgiving.

"Yeah," she says, lying through her teeth. "I can do that." 

Everyone goes their separate ways not too long after that. Bow leads the kids into the clinic to wash up and, again, Adora has to give Lonnie the silent go-ahead to remind her she and the boys are safe. Glimmer mopes and follows her mother inside, exchanging some words with Bow before they split up. The rest of the camp goes about its nightly routine: sleeping and keeping watch along the perimeter. 

And Adora, well, she can't afford to fall asleep. So, she follows her heart and does the next best thing she knows will help her unwind—punching her feelings out on the bag. 

* * *

Bow finds her an hour or two (or three) later—Adora has lost all sense of time—with her knuckles bruising against their one-and-only punching bag. Some light filters in through the blinds in this little office-turned-mini-gym, and Adora guesses it's at least past dawn. 

She just pulled an all-nighter to avoid her problems. How silly of her. She almost laughs at the absurdity of her actions, thinking: _wow, I really am an idiot._

"You took off the gloves," he says plainly. 

Adora blinks and looks down at her naked hands, bruised and cracked open. "Oh." She musters up her best apologetic smile. "Sorry."

Bow shakes his head. "Don't apologize. Just take better care of yourself next time, okay?"

Adora bobs her head dumbly, and Bow jumps straight into doctoring her up. An inventive engineer by trade, but caring for other people comes naturally to him. In just a few minutes time, he's pressing a cotton ball soaked in antiseptic against her knuckles, shooting her ruthful looks every time she hisses in pain. 

He strikes up a conversation to distract her. "You should've saw the look on their faces when I showed them the showers. They all lit up like Christmas trees!" He chuckles, before deadpanning, "Except Kyle. He just started crying. Which was... touching, I guess." 

Adora giggles. "Yeah, he does that."

"Oh, and I think Lonnie likes you. She asked about you a bit. Y'know, when she wasn't busy putting on the strong silent type front." 

She makes a face. "I really don't know why. Glimmer's the one who stuck her neck out for them, not me."

"Little kids look up to their elders," he says as he finishes wrapping up her hands. "She saw something in you she admired—like a lot of us, actually." Adora feels a little ping in her chest and tries not to smile. Bow grins and adds, "Plus, I'm pretty sure she thinks you're a total badass."

Adora snorts. "Seriously?"

"Dead serious." He gasps, eyes widening in realization. "Aw, you're probably like her first crush. That's so cute!"

Adora laughs, and it's as if a knot in her stomach comes undone, letting her breathe easy again. She really can't say how long she's been holding her breath, but the relief that floods her system is instantaneous. She's been wound too tight for too long. 

"Thanks, Bow," she murmurs once her laughing fit dies down. 

"Of course." The look on his face tells her he knows a lot more than he's letting on—probably from Glimmer—but he doesn't push, not unless she really needs a kick in the ass, which she's grateful for. "We're here for you, Adora." 

She smiles weakly. "Yeah, I know."

"Hmm," he hums, inspecting her bandaged knuckles and nodding his approval. "You don't have to talk about it, but... I really think you should get some sleep. It'll help."

Adora thinks of what she'll find in her dreams and winces. "Yeah, maybe," is all she says. Truth be told, she's only awake out of sheer, stubborn will. The exhaustion behind her eyes is weighing her down, whispering sweet nothings into her ear, but she's too afraid to answer its call. 

"You need to rest, Adora."

"I know," she sighs. "It's just—"

She's interrupted by the sound of crackling static coming from her varsity jacket that's crumpled on the floor. 

_"Um, holy shit guys,"_ Mermista's voice calls out, and Adora is now scrambling to grab her walkie. _"There's someone coming up the main road. Alone."_ A beat. _"And she looks like a bloody mess."_

Adora doesn't hesitate. She rushes outside with Bow hot on her heels, snatching her jacket and her gun on the way. When they reach the front gate, Mermista, Seahawk, and Glimmer are already there, taking turns looking down Mermista's rifle scope. Adora climbs up the ladder and joins them, then Bow, and everyone's panic is palpable in the air. 

"What do we do?" Mermista asks, exasperated. "They don't cover this in guard duty orientation!" Um, there's no guard duty orientation, but that's probably not her point. 

"Mermista, dear," Seahawk says, nervously stroking his mustache. "I think you need to calm down—"

"Don't tell me to calm down!" she snaps. 

Glimmer lowers the rifle scope, looking far too doom and gloom for Adora's liking. "You know what the protocol is." 

Adora frowns. Protocol says outsiders aren't allowed inside the clinic's walls, no matter what. People are dangerous, it says; you never know what a person's intentions are, and it's not worth risking the lives of the people they care about. Although, it wasn't always like this; they used to take people in, patch them back up, and give them the choice to stay, to become a part of something bigger. Once upon a time, Adora was one of those lost souls. But those days are long gone. Now they have _protocol._

"I don't know, Glimmer," says Bow, breaking a sweat. He seems to be in the middle of an existential crisis of conscience. "I mean, I know _why_ , but... this seems cruel. What does your mom think?"

"She doesn't know." Glimmer holds up a walkie, her expression blank. "I've got her radio. She's still asleep." 

The group explodes into nervous ramblings, divided on what to do and whether they should get Angella involved; except they all know what her answer will be. Meanwhile, Adora swaps her shotgun out for the rifle that's gone slack in Grimmer's grip and holds it up to see what she can see.

The girl is skinny, that much she can tell. Her red flannel looks more like a giant poncho as it flaps in the wind unbuttoned around her petite frame. The girl's hair is wild, untamed, like a brown mane coating her back and falling over her shoulders. She walks with a limp and makes slow progress down the road. A trail of blood follows in her wake, dripping from her gut— _and is that a knife sticking out of her stomach?_ It's too far for Adora to make out. 

The girl looks up ever so slightly, and something in Adora's chest burns with devastating clarity. 

Adora drops the gun and jumps the wall without a second thought, ignoring all the frantic voices calling her name. She breaks into a sprint down the road. The exhaustion she felt earlier is gone, replaced in full with a high rush of adrenaline. Adora doesn't stop— _can't_ stop—until she reaches the girl. When she does, she drops down to her knees, catching the girl before she falls face-first onto cracked asphalt.

Adora is shaking, nothing but frayed nerves. "H-Hey," she whispers. She carefully adjusts her hold to turn the girl over in her arms, searching for a face. "I've got you, don't worry." 

The girl looks up at her again, and it's just as she thought. Mismatched eyes, one blue and one goldish-brown, look straight through her, too groggy to show a hint of recognition, but they're _hers_ all the same. And shit, there really is a knife sticking out of her stomach. 

"C-Catra?" she tries unsteadily, eyes brimming with tears. 

She gets a small, pained smile in return. "H-Hey... Adora."

The ghost of her best friend falls limp in her arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don’t you just love cliffhangers? (I’m evil, I know). 
> 
> Anyway, Catra's POV is next! So stay tuned. And as always, reviews feed the hungry writer. All I crave is validation, guys... so please tell me I didn't completely butcher these characters and that this story is worth the read, I beg you. It'll motivate me to write faster, if that's the right incentive (but if you post comments just telling me to "update, update, update" I'll scream).


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which we find out exactly how Catra ended up this way, the beginnings of her healing process, and that "conscious" reunion we've all been waiting for. Fair warning, Catra is pretty feral in this opening scene, but I guess she could be a lot worse. Shadow Weaver is, well, _Shadow Weaver,_ and there is one scene where self harm is vaguely considered even if it doesn't happen—so stay safe is all I'm saying.

"You must think we're stupid."

 _Yes,_ thinks Catra dryly, rolling her eyes as dramatically as she can. This really isn't how she imagined her evening going. Here she is, tied to a chair, wearing some stupid sundress Scorpia said matched her blue eye, listening to some no-good fuck boys tell her that she screwed up—as if she doesn't already _know._

She'd gladly tell them how she really feels if, you know, there wasn't a patch of duct tape sealing her mouth shut. 

"Did you really think we wouldn't notice?" Dumb asks, palming the barrel of his baseball bat, while his partner, Dumber, glares at her from over his shoulder. They definitely told her their names when they first met—back when she was playing the "damsel in distress" card—but Catra didn't bother to remember them; Dumb and Dumber suits them just fine. 

Dumber—or Man-Bun, whatever works—looks at his pal, whispering, "Bro, you know she can't answer, right?"

"I know that," Dumb hisses, running a hand through his curly red hair. Maybe she should start calling him Chucky. "It's the _principle."_

Catra groans into her sticky gag. How these two meatheads survived this long, she'll never know. Hell, the fact that they somehow managed to take over this old food bank, hunker down, and defend it from scavengers was way beyond her. She thought this place would be an easy mark—as if a couple of dude-bros could possibly resist her flirtatious charm—but apparently they both decided to grow a brain cell at the last second, catching her red-handed sifting through their merchandise. 

And now here she sits, in a room full of canned goods that could feed her group for weeks, with her ego blown to smithereens. Oh, how the mighty have fallen. 

_"Bold of you to think so highly of yourself. You should know better."_

Catra bucks against her restraints, striking her bound hands against the back of the chair. She _does_ know better. She'll save herself, like always. Catra doesn't need somebody else to play the hero for her because she is _strong._ Those rough edges people saw in her as a kid—the flaws that everyone hated, that made her _undesirable_ and easy to leave behind—sharpened her into a weapon that was born for this world. And little do these chuckleheads know, she still has an ace up her sleeve. 

She knew filing her nails into claws would come in handy one day. 

Chucky whistles. "You've sure got a lot of fight in you for a chick." _God, spare her the misogynist speech, please._ "Thought that crack to the head would've knocked you out for a long while." 

Catra narrows her eyes at him, not liking what she's reading between the lines. He could at least try to pretend like he saw her as something more than just a pretty face with girl parts. Luckily, Man-Bun seems to have a working moral compass, so Chucky hasn't tried anything yet (but it's not like he'd get very far with someone like her, anyway). 

Slowly but surely, her claws work their magic on the rope binding her hands together.

Catra doesn't see it coming when he rams the tip of the bat into her gut, knocking the wind out of her, and now it's a disgusting blood-saliva mess behind her tape gag. Her nostrils flare for air. She must've made a face that royally pissed him off. Another hit, this time a full swing, thwacks her shoulder, and the pain fireworks down her left side. Now _that_ was for his fragile male ego, to show off the power he has over her, like he wants her to whip out a ruler to prove a point. 

Still, she keeps cutting.

"Jesus, Chuck," Man-Bun says, aghast. Catra can't help but laugh through the pain. "You trying to kill her or something?"

"Nah," says Chuck(y). "She just needs a strong hand, that's all." He pinches her chin between his fingers, grinning smugly. "Not so tough now, are ya?" 

Catra tries to say something through the tape—something snippy that will likely earn her a third round with the bat, but that's not her intention. 

Chuck makes a face and moves to peel the tape off her mouth. _Hook, line, and sinker._ He rips it off and the sting it leaves behind is temporary, almost satisfying. 

"What was that?" he sneers. 

Catra does what any girl would do in her situation. She spits a loogie of blood in his face and says, "Suck my dick, asshole." 

She always did have a way with words. 

_"Why do you talk back so much, Catra? It only makes her mad."_

She's almost thankful for the fist that digs into her cheek, jarring her, because anything is better than psychoanalyzing _that_ thought and the blue eyes and tightly-tied ponytail that come with it. 

"Chuck, that's enough!" Man-Bun yells, pulling Chuck back by the arm. She appreciates the chivalry—if only for the distraction as she finally cuts through her restraints—but all it gets him is an elbow to the face. She almost feels sorry for him. Almost. 

"Back off, Jerry!" 

While the men work out their testosterone-driven bullshit, Catra breaks free and picks up the conveniently dropped baseball bat on the floor. Holding it in her hands feels a lot like coming home (if that makes any sense). Her fingers coil around the grip, and suddenly a flash of _her—_ all bright-eyed and jacked in her red and white uniform—nearly blinds Catra; so does the image of her wearing the same thing, smiling and fist-bumping the girl she once called her best friend. 

Catra shakes her head and refocuses.

When Chuck thinks he has the upper hand, pinning Jerry on the floor, she leans hard into her swing and _crack_ —she hits him clean upside the head. He never sees it coming. His death drop is anti-climatic, but the blood splatter still unnerves her. She thinks she should be used to this by now, but the truth is killing doesn't come naturally to her. Not like she thought it would. As it turns out, she still has a conscience, and it's a bitch and a half to deal with sometimes. 

_"You're not a mean person, Catra. Deep down, I know you really care. But don't worry, I won't tell anyone. Your secret is safe with me."_

_This isn't exactly the kind of world where the nice guy survives,_ she thinks bitterly. And, to prove her point, Jerry surprises her by tackling her to the ground, eyes blind with rage. She drops the bat in her fall. 

"Y-You killed him!" he cries, grasping for her throat. 

Catra is more disoriented than she thought, otherwise she'd throw him off in heartbeat. Instead, she bites the bullet and claws at his face like any helpless damsel would. Except her nails tear into his soft flesh with ease, leaving lines of red in their wake. He jolts backwards, shrieking, hands scrambling to cover his eyes. His new position makes it easier for her to kick him in the chest with all her might. When he lands flat on his back, gasping for air, she jumps him, unsheathing his— _her_ —knife from his belt. She tucks it under his chin and smiles when he gulps. 

Now _this_ is the part she enjoys. 

"Not so tough now, are ya?" she says, mocking Chuck's voice. She twists the knife in her grip tauntingly. "So, Jerry, here's how this is gonna work. You either piss me off and I kill you like your pal Chucky here— _or_ you tuck tail and run and never show your face around here again. If you do, you're a dead man. See the picture I'm painting?"

He nods like a bobble head, looking like he might wet his pants. Correction: he _did_ wet his pants. 

"Good to know we're on the same page." She pulls him up by the collar of his shirt and shoves him into the wall. "Now, _fuck off."_

When Catra releases him, he bolts like she knew he would. His five seconds of anger-induced courage were over the moment he thought he could pick a fight with the likes of her. He was never in her league to begin with. 

Because Catra is a survivor born from the ashes of this new world, and he's just some guy living in it. They are not the same. 

_"Don't fool yourself. You're still nothing more than a nuisance, a stain this world has yet to purge. It's only a matter of time."_

Catra's claws dig into her palms, a growl crawling up her throat. But the moment passes, her fingers slacken, and she decides to let it go. If only because she took this place all on her own, and _Shadow Weaver_ —a shitty but fitting nickname, she admits—can kiss her ass. Catra would like to see her try and lift a finger to keep their group alive. All that woman is good for is looming in the shadows and barking out orders. Can she even call herself a survivor when the only reason she's still breathing is because of _Catra?_

A spasm of pain wracks her body, and Catra winces, dropping her knife. She grits her teeth, giving her sore shoulder a little squeeze (not dislocated, thankfully), and picks up the knife to tuck it inside her boot. That beating Chuck gave her is still fresh and there's no doubt in her mind that he cracked a rib with that gut shot. Speaking of Chuck... 

Catra looks down at his corpse, nose wrinkling with disgust. His head kind of reminds her of a dented soda can, but with a lot more blood and gore. There's no way she can signal Scorpia now and have her walk in on this. Scorpia might look like the type of person that can snap you in half without breaking a sweat, but on the inside she is nothing but cream filling. She doesn't have the stomach for violence unless it's absolutely necessary. 

And the sight of Chuck would absolutely make her lose her shit. 

So, like a good friend, Catra ignores all her aches and pains to get rid of the body—by tossing it out of a second-story window, of course. Seems like a proper burial for an annoying jerk-off like him. She wipes her hands of him, cringing at the blood spatter on her dress, and figures body disposal duty was the greater of her two priorities; Scorpia can deal with Catra ruining the dress she picked out for her, _not_ a dead body. 

As evening darkens into night, Catra finally signals Scorpia. She shines a flashlight out the window, flicking it on and off against a glass window display for an old antique store down the road. Once she's sure the message has been received, she slumps against the wall and begins to nod off. 

_"I never wanted to leave you behind, Catra."_

She falls asleep and dreams of a stupid blonde girl who filled her heart with so much warmth, so much love, just to shatter it like she meant nothing— _was_ nothing. 

If only she could see Catra now. Would she still leave her, in the end? 

Her dream doesn't offer her an answer. 

* * *

"Oh my god, _Catra!_ Don't go towards the light!"

Catra wakes up to big, meaty arms shaking her in a vice grip, and watery eyes looking down at her like she's dead. Which, judging by the way she feels right now—like her body's been hit by a bus—she kind of wishes that were true. The man-handling of her assumed corpse is definitely not helping, either. 

"Scorpia!" she snaps, catching her friend's wrists. "I'm alive, you idiot! Stop shaking me like a rag doll!" 

A strangled gasp, and suddenly Catra is pulled into a tight bear hug. Again, not good for her throbbing _everything._

"Scorpia, please," she wheezes. 

"Oh, shoot, I am so sorry." Scorpia lets go and suddenly Catra can breathe again. "Did I hurt you?" _Yes,_ her mind screams, but her mouth stays shut for Scorpia's sake. "I was just so worried. Finding your best friend unconscious and covered in blood is kind of a lot to take in, y'know?"

Catra sighs. "I'm fine. Those frat-boy losers just had more fight in them than I gave them credit for."

She hisses, caught off guard when Scorpia brushes her thumb over the gash on her cheek, compliments of Chuck's bony fist. "You're really beat up, Wildcat." 

"It's nothing." She pushes Scorpia away gently, trying not to come off too harsh. Lord knows they had plenty of bad blood—all _hers,_ of course—between them earlier on in their relationship. Three years together now, and Catra feels like she has a better handle on her tendency to lash out (for the most part); and she trusts Scorpia, which for someone like her is saying _a lot._

"I can help," Scorpia says, voice disgustingly sweet. "Let me clean you up a bit. Help you lick your wounds—" Catra makes a face "—uh, sorry, that came out... weird. But you know what I mean." 

Catra shakes her head and stands up shakily, officially changing the subject. "You got my clothes?"

Scorpia nods and hands her a book bag.

Catra is so ready to kiss this girly dress goodbye. Feminine innocence has never really been her style; she’d much rather say she’s drop-dead in a suit. Flannels, ripped jeans, and combat boots are more her aesthetic, but they don't make people drop their guard quite like a flowery sundress does. And to think, in her past life she was a _jock;_ an edgy one that smoked grass from time to time, but a cardio grinder nonetheless. Still is, in some ways—just ask Chuck and his smashed-in head.

_"You really are a gifted athlete, Catra."_

Catra shakes away that thought and unzips the bag. Scorpia immediately turns around, giving her privacy to change.

"So," Catra starts, shimmying out of the dress. "How's everyone settling in?"

"Oh! Everybody's doing great. They've never seen so much food in one place in _years._ I can't believe this place held out for so long. Seems like a miracle, y'know?" Catra can imagine the dopey smile on Scorpia's face as she tacks on, "And we wouldn't be here if it wasn't for you, Wildcat. You're the best."

Catra hikes her jeans up over her hips, trying not to melt into a puddle of validation. It feels good to be needed, to feel _wanted_ for once in her life. 

When shit initially hit the fan, Catra was alone with no one to look after her—or _care_ about her—but herself. She grew a thicker skin, let her mind wander to a darker place. With nothing but piss and vinegar in her veins, she picked fights and bit any hand that tried to feed her. She was more wild animal than person those first few months; it taught her grit and how to survive by the skin of her teeth, but she almost lost herself in the process. 

Now she has people that depend on her, that value _her._ To them, Catra isn't a waste of space, she is their salvation.

_"You are nobody's salvation. If you were, don't you think **she** would've stayed?" _

Catra's breath hitches in her throat. 

_"She left because she saw you for what you really are—a parasite, a disappointment, a hopeless failure. Who could possibly love someone as foul as you?"_

"Yoo-hoo, Catra? Uh, earth to Catra, do you read me?" A beat. "Wait, are you crying? Was it something I said?" 

Catra snaps out of it and quickly wipes away the tears, shoving past Scorpia as she sticks her arm through her flannel sleeve. "Where's Shadow Weaver?" she grits out, jaw clenched.

Scorpia fumbles a bit, her bleeding heart most likely palpitating through her chest, but finally answers, "Oh, about that... she's not here right now."

"What do you mean, she's _not_ here?" 

Scorpia twiddles her thumbs and avoids eye contact. "Um, she kinda took the kids on a field trip." _Lonnie, Kyle, and Rogelio? Why the hell would she do that?_ "She didn't tell me why—and you know how her silent mask-face totally creeps me out, so I didn't think to ask." Her face falls. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be," says Catra, trying to suppress the rage growing inside of her like a wildfire. Because _of course_ Shadow Weaver isn't here for Catra to rub her victory in her face. And taking the kids with no explanation is just the cherry on top. 

To put out the fire, Catra deflects. "Have you seen Entrapta?"

Scorpia's eyes widen, and it's as if a light bulb flashes over her head. "That's right, Entrapta! I can't believe I almost forgot. She wants to talk to you."

Catra raises a brow. "About...?"

"She picked up some chatter on her radio doohickey thing. It sounded important."

And that's how Catra ends up in the middle of a small-town back alley—luckily the one _without_ a dead body pancaked on the ground—standing behind an ugly purple van with Christmas lights flickering on the inside and an old ham radio set-up packed into the trunk.

She used to be impressed by Entrapta's resourcefulness, but now she's just perpetually unsurprised and annoyed. Entrapta can be an acquired taste, to put it mildly; and Catra has ended up on the wrong side of her experiments too many times to count—her eyebrows have only just grown back from the last time. But Catra can't deny that her knowledge and ingenuity have proven invaluable to their group's survival. Plus, she can be pretty endearing once you get past the awkward social skills and her explosive ramblings about science—or at least, that's what Scorpia keeps telling her. 

"Catra!" she calls, her lilac-colored pigtails bouncing with her every step. "I'm so glad you're here. I finally got the radio to work! Isn't that fantastic?"

Behind her, Scorpia nods excitedly, while Catra takes a deep breath, biting back a wince when her cracked rib reminds her of its presence.

"Sure, I guess."

"Her name's Darla!" Entrapta hugs the main hub, whispering, "And I love her and all her flaws." 

Catra blinks, at a loss for words.

"Aw, that's such a cute name," Scorpia coos. 

_Focus,_ Catra growls in her head, but out loud she says, "So, what does _Darla_ have for me that's so important?"

"Oh, that's right!" Entrapta tinkers with the radio, cycling through stations full of static, until she hits a certain frequency and—

 _"Mermista, are the camera's turning on?"_ says a deep but bubbly voice. 

A long-winded groan answers, and then, _"Um, how am I supposed to tell?"_

_"Look for a blinking red dot."_

_"I see it!"_ shouts another voice, sounding far too merry for Catra's taste. _"Oh, Bow, this is splendid!"_

_"I guess it's pretty cool."_

_"Aw, thanks guys."_

Entrapta cuts the frequency, eyes open wide in wonder. "What I'd give to have access to that live video feed." She's practically drooling. "Actual working cameras, Catra. Think of the possibilities."

"I think I'm more interested in knowing where exactly that broadcast is coming from. Do you know?"

Entrapta looks unperturbed. "Oh, that's easy. It's coming from that clinic about thirty miles up the road."

Catra is taken aback. Brightmoon Clinic. She's heard of the place before, about it being occupied by a group of do-gooder doctors who "graciously" offer their services to those in need. The only catch: nobody's allowed inside their home base, which seems a little hypocritical for people so desperate to call themselves heroes. 

For a second, Catra wonders what it's like to be able to plant roots like that, to have some semblance of "home". All she knows is moving around from place to place, never knowing when or what her next meal will be or what kind of people she'll run into. What a privilege it is nowadays to feel safe and provided for. It's... actually kind of infuriating to think about. What makes them so special, anyway?

"Shadow Weaver thinks we should target them next," Entrapta says casually. "She seems to think we could settle down there. And I must admit, it would be nice to stop running for a while." She pats the back of the van, whimpering, "I don't know how many more miles my poor Emily can take."

Catra takes a slow, calculated breath. "Did you just say Shadow Weaver knows about this?" 

Scorpia stiffens behind her, but Entrapta just answers her in a way that shows she’s blissfully oblivious to her torment. “Well, yeah. She was here when I first intercepted the frequency! Oh, and I almost forgot." She walks along the van and opens the back door, digging through a pile of notebooks filled with various observations and calculations to pull out a tiny piece of notebook paper. She hands it to Catra and says, "I've got the clinic's frequency and the one you'll use to reach us written down. That way you can talk to us behind enemy lines if you find one of their radios." She pauses to swoon. "Isn't technology amazing?"

Catra claps her hands together in a prayer, trying her hardest _not_ to spontaneously combust. "So what you're telling me is: Shadow Weaver expects _me_ to infiltrate that charity case they call a clinic? She wants _me_ to bypass their security and take them down from the inside?"

There’s a moment where Entrapta’s face stays impossibly blank, but then she smiles brightly and nods. “That’s right! Although I don't have all the logistics. You should really talk to Shadow Weaver about that."

 _This is it,_ Catra thinks. Either Shadow Weaver is putting a lot of faith in her for once, or she’s finally decided to get rid of Catra for good. And knowing _her,_ it’s obviously the latter. She really hates how much that hurts. 

"Fan-fucking-tastic," Catra grumbles, turning on her heel to leave. All she craves now is alone time to process all of her shit—or, if she's being completely honest with herself, to ignore it all until the pain numbs away. 

"Wait, I'm not finished!"

Catra pauses, back turned to them. "What else," she gripes. 

Scorpia must be sweating bullets looking between them. Meanwhile, Entrapta just sidesteps Catra's bad attitude and whips out one of her notepads, chattering excitedly. "So I've been looking over the data from our travels."

"Please, spare me," Catra groans. 

"This past year alone shows a sharp decline in rabid influenza cases," she rambles on. "And the harsh weather patterns have tempered off. Less earthquakes, milder rainstorms, no more extreme heat or bitter cold. I think nature is finally correcting itself."

Catra's eye twitches as she turns around to face her. "You got all that just by traveling down the west coast?" she deadpans. "Not exactly a universal poll to pull data from."

On second thought, Catra had noticed how forgiving this past winter was compared to all the others. It was cold, but not the kind of cold that froze people to death even with layers of clothes on; and the snow dropped in inches instead of feet. And yeah, maybe they have been seeing less and less sick people, lately. That doesn't mean the world is suddenly "fixed". 

Just because circumstances change, doesn't mean people do. 

"Data never lies," says Entrapta. "Even if my scale is small, the results are pretty remarkable. It must mean something."

Finally, Scorpia speaks up. "Is... the end of the world _ending?"_

Catra scoffs, feeling her nerves start to prickle. "Listen to yourselves. That's a load of bullshit." 

"I don't know," Entrapta says as she scribbles something down on her notepad. "This could very well mean a societal resurgence."

"So, maybe the world goes back to normal?" Scorpia offers up, sounding hopeful.

At that, Catra's heart sinks into the pit of her stomach and burns, burns, _burns_. Her mouth runs dry, and suddenly it's getting harder to breathe without feeling like her chest is about to burst. This world is all she knows now. It shaped her into something sharp, a _survivor,_ when before she was nothing but a spiteful coward that no one wanted to deal with. 

Catra doesn't know if she can go back to who she was before—so powerless and dejected with no one in her corner. _Alone._

_"I'm always going to be here for you, Catra. I promise."_

But she lied. 

"Catra?"

She reverts back to old habits and bolts without a word. 

* * *

Hours later, Catra is found in a broom closet by the last person she wants to see, let alone _talk_ to. 

"So predictable, as always," Shadow Weaver remarks tactlessly after she opens the door, and Catra instinctively curls into herself more, tucking deeper into her corner. The only mother figure she's ever known stands over her, all shadow-like (hence the nickname that's stuck like glue). And somehow she still looks smug even with that stupid red mask covering her face. "Come here to sulk?"

"Piss off," she mumbles. 

Shadow Weaver clicks her tongue to make a _tsk, tsk, tsk_ noise. "I'm not here to argue with you, Catra. I just want to talk."

"What, about how you wanna throw me away?" The anger rumbles awake inside of her now, riling her up. She uncurls and stands up to meet Shadow Weaver's pointed gaze dead-on. "Yeah, that's right. I heard about your little plan to take over that fucking fortress you call a clinic. Think you can just get rid of me that easily?"

"It's almost sad how quick you are to doubt yourself."

Catra is left speechless, and barely has any time to react before a hand gently cups her cheek. 

"I thought I raised you to be stronger than this," she continues, teasing the gash on Catra's cheek with her thumb. "I suppose I could've misjudged you. I mean, just look at you. All beaten and bruised by just a couple of boys pretending to be men. What a pity." 

Even if her words sting, Catra can't help but lean into her touch, too touch-starved for her own good. "I'm not weak," she murmurs. Then, when a thought strikes her, she says, "Where are the kids?"

Shadow Weaver gently weaves her fingers through Catra's hair and it feels like love, even if she knows better. "Serving a higher purpose. You'll see them soon enough."

An alarm sounds off in her head, telling her to pull away, _begging_ her to—but Catra doesn't listen. All she wants is to feel wanted, by Shadow Weaver especially. And she'll take whatever she can get. 

"How the hell am I supposed get inside?" she asks. "Those clinic cronies are all about stranger danger. That place is on total lockdown—it's got cameras and everything. So what's your plan?" 

Shadow Weaver removes her hand, and it's pathetic how Catra whines at the loss. "Your knife, child."

Catra blinks. "What?"

"Your knife. Give it to me." 

This Catra doesn't feel like talking back anymore. This Catra is obedient, reaching down to pull the knife out of her boot and offering it to Shadow Weaver like it's the holy grail. It's crazy how easy it is for this woman to put Catra under her spell—show her a hint of love and affection and the fight just pours out of her. She really thought she was better than this.

"Yes, very good," Shadow Weaver says, admiring the blade in her hands. There's something unsettling about the way she looks at it, like she's itching to use it. But getting her hands dirty has never been her style; she'd much rather collude from the shadows. "Now I want you to listen carefully to what I'm about to tell you."

Catra is feeling less compliant now, more jittery. "Just spit it out, already!"

At first, it feels like someone's just poked her really hard in the gut, the pain barely registering. The shock cushions the blow. She gasps, staring wide-eyed at her attacker; in return, Shadow Weaver gives her nothing but a cold-hearted stare through that horrid mask. She lets go of the knife but leaves it in, and Catra's legs turn to jelly, giving out beneath her. There’s nothing more degrading than kneeling before the woman who raised her—who just _stabbed_ her—but at least she doesn’t collapse into a bloody heap. Catra would hate to give her that satisfaction. 

"Y-You bitch," she spits, feeling her breathing stall. The wetness of her own blood spilling in her lap is disorienting, _icky._ The shock numbing her nervous system keeps her afloat but just barely. In truth, it's her spite that's keeping her conscious. Her eyes burn with murderous intent but she's too weak to act on it— _what a pity._

Shadow Weaver makes that _tsk, tsk, tsk_ noise again and Catra wants to claw her eyes out. "Now, now, Catra. You asked how you'd get inside, and I've provided you with an answer." 

Catra seriously considers pulling out the knife to return the favor, but Shadow Weaver stops her before she can. She grabs a tuft of Catra's hair and pulls her up, keeping her from breaking eye contact.

"You don't want to bleed out, do you?"

Catra snarls at her, seeing nothing but red. 

"Don't you get snippy with me. If you'd just behave yourself and _listen"_ —Catra winces at the way she yanks at her hair—"you'd understand that you won't die unless I say so. Those lovely idealists living in that clinic are going to let you in and patch you up. And then you will pick them apart from the inside so that when the time comes, we will take what is ours." 

Catra doesn't know when she started crying, but once the tears come they don't stop. 

"If not for me, think of the people who depend on you. Scorpia, Entrapta, the children, and everyone else." Shadow Weaver leans in close by her ear, whispering, "I need you to do what you do best, Catra. _Survive."_

Catra doesn't remember much after that. Everything comes and goes in flashes. One moment she's being dragged out of the food bank, and the next she's being shuttled inside a car. Then, she's dropped like a sack of potatoes in the street, the sound of squealing tires pitching over the intense ringing in her ears shortly thereafter. 

Catra grits her teeth and finds her footing, feeling too much and not enough all at once. She limps down the road with no sense of direction. Her only sign is the dotted yellow line between her feet. She weaves in and out but always comes back to the dotted line. 

At one point, she lifts her head, but the action is tiring, and her chin falls back down against her clavicle. There's a ruckus in the distance, but she can't make it out. Could be voices, could be nothing. She takes one more step and her legs give out. Catra's resigned to busting her face open on the pavement when a pair of strong arms catch her instead, stopping her fall. 

"H-Hey," says a familiar voice, like in a dream. Her body starts to turn over in somebody's hold and she tries not to cry out in pain. "I've got you, don't worry."

When Catra comes face to face with _those_ blue eyes, she knows she's dead already. The universe is playing some sick cosmic joke on her by showing her a carbon copy of her ex-best friend, alive and well, cradling Catra in her arms like she's the only thing in this world that matters. What a sick, twisted joke. But she'd be lying if she said this figment of her imagination doesn't warm her stillborn heart. 

"C-Catra?"

She puts on a smile for this hallucination, and says as smoothly as she can, "H-Hey... Adora." 

And then her world fades to black. 

* * *

"I can't believe it's her. Like, _the_ Catra. This feels like meeting a celebrity. Y'know... because she's famous but we hardly know anything about her."

"Yeah, I guess. To be honest I'm more hung up on the whole 'beat to shit and _stabbed'_ part of her story—but sure, talk about her celebrity status. Because _that's_ what's important." 

"Glimmer—"

"What? Can't a girl be a little suspicious? Bow, she was half _dead_ when we found her."

"I know, I know, I'm not ruling anything out. But she _is_ Adora's friend, and that should count for something, right?"

That name drop is enough to jolt Catra out of her half awake, half dead state, groaning as if to say: _I'm here, I can hear you, but where the fuck is here?_ Her eyes slowly peel open, met harshly by a stale white ceiling. Her entire body is throbbing, but at the same time it feels like she's floating. She tries to move but nothing wants to cooperate.

"She's awake!" one of the voices whisper-shrieks, nearly sending Catra over the edge. Her hearing is very testy right now. "What do we do?"

"Relax," the other voice chirps, trying to sound calm and in control. "She's pumped full of pain killers. She's hardly lucid."

Oh, that explains the floaty feeling. 

"Should we get Adora?"

Hearing that name again has Catra free-falling back down to earth. 

"No," the girl hisses. Through Catra's haze, she looks very... sparkly. "Adora's gotten like no sleep the past two days. She donated over two units of blood—which was **crazy** _—_ and it took us forever to convince her to rest. My mom had to give her a _sedative._ You really wanna wake her up?"

"That is... very true," says the nicer one. Is he wearing a crop top that says _"Gosh, I love arrows"_ or is Catra's vision playing tricks on her? "Yeah, you're right. Her health trumps heartfelt reunion. But Adora's not going to be happy when she wakes up." 

"That's a problem for future Glimmer and Bow," Sparkles says dismissively. "Adora can suck it up and just be thankful her friend didn't bleed out on the table."

Adora _this,_ Adora _that._ Catra has had enough.

"Shut... _up,"_ she moans.

Arrow Boy gasps. "She speaks." 

"Tell us what happened to you," Sparkles demands suddenly, looming over her like a bedazzled shadow. Her whole get-up is losing intimidation points with Catra, but she still swallows nervously. 

"Glimmer!" 

"What? We need to know. Lord knows Adora won't have the nerve to ask her and follow through."

"Stop it," Catra mumbles, sounding far too fragile. "Stop saying her name." 

Arrow Boy blinks. "What, you mean Adora?"

"She's _gone,"_ Catra insists. She _left_ her. 

Sparkles shakes her head. "If she was gone, you wouldn't be here right now. She saved your life, Catra. Adora is here. She's alive."

The "she saved you" narrative cuts at several of Catra's aching insecurities, but that's not the revelation she dwells on the most; not even the part where Sparkles knows her name. No, it's the _"Adora is here"_ part she can't quite grasp. She'salive, and that means that whole lovey-dovey scene Catra was certain was a death hallucination really happened. 

"Ah, fuck," she mutters helplessly. 

Sparkles gets in her face again. "Now, tell us what happened. Who did this to you?"

_"I need you to do what you do best, Catra. **Survive**." _

Catra shudders. "Bad people," she replies, blinking away the image of Shadow Weaver stabbing her in a broom closet. That's nightmare fuel she'll deal with later.

"What kind of bad people?"

Catra grips her crisp white sheets, opting to stare boldly into Sparkles’ eyes as a way of answering. It's only now that things start coming into focus. Her sports bra and compression shorts that leave her feeling exposed, the copper taste that stains her mouth, the disinfectant-smelling room that reminds her too much of doctor's visits growing up—it hits her all at once. 

She's inside Brightmoon Clinic. Adora _lives_ here. And her body, like Sparkles said, is beat to shit. 

"Give her a break, Glimmer," says Arrow Boy, eyes pinched with concern. "Can't you see she's freaking out?" 

He isn't wrong; in fact, Catra is only now just realizing she's in the midst of a panic attack. Shortness of breath, mind circling the drain, hands grabbing anything they can to ground her. 

_Shadow Weaver stabbed her. Everything hurts. Adora is here._ All of this plays like a broken record inside her head while her heart seeks to vacate her chest with each heavy beat.

"Fine," Sparkles huffs, frowning at her (but the worry in her eyes still bleeds through). "You're off the hook. But don't think for a second that this interrogation is over with." She tinkers with something next to the bed that Catra can't see. "Have a nice trip," she says flatly. 

Before Catra can react, her body seems to float away and the world goes dark again. 

* * *

The next time Catra wakes, all she hears is _her_ voice. 

_"It's almost sad how quick you are to doubt yourself."_

She rolls over in bed, cradling her head. 

_"I thought I raised you to be stronger than this."_

A sob bubbles up her throat against her will. 

_"I need you to do what you do best, Catra. **Survive**." _

Catra jolts up into a sitting position, gasping for breath. The bed feels too restricting, her body too wired to stay still _._ With little finesse, she rips out the IV—which hurts like hell, to her dumb surprise—and jumps out of bed. She paces back and forth, ignoring the achy protests her pain receptors send her. She is far from healed, far from ready to move around like this, but she just can't help it. All the while her claws dig into her hair, tugging mindlessly. 

Driven by impulse, Catra walks up to the counter tucked away in the corner and jerks open a drawer. As fate would have it, she finds a pair of scissors tucked underneath a box of gloves. She picks them up, her hand shaking with nerves. Her grip closes around the cutting end. There's a long, pregnant pause where she just stares at this sharp object, considering her options. 

_Survive, survive, survive._

Catra hurries into the tiny adjoined bathroom and stares at her reflection in the mirror for what feels like hours. Still bruised, still broken, her mane tousled into a messy rat's nest. _Can she really do this?_ she thinks. When a shadow closes in from behind her and the phantom touch of a hand cups her face, sending an icy chill down her spine, her decision is officially made. 

She makes the first cut and watches a clump of hair fall into the sink basin. Her breathing stutters, but she soldiers on, reaching blindly for some inkling of control. With each snip, she feels the way Shadow Weaver yanked her around and stuck the knife through her gut. Those feelings slowly fade as more hair piles into the sink. Not forgotten—because that moment will _always_ haunt her—but less heavy, like she can breathe easier. 

Catra grunts her frustration, trying and failing to trim the back to her liking. 

"You should be in bed."

She goes deathly still, scissors frozen in time at the nape of her neck.

Sparkles sighs from the doorway. "If I help you finish... will you go back to bed?"

Catra blinks, surprised. The complete lack of hostility in her voice is unexpected. Last time they spoke, she was little Ms. Confrontational, hounding Catra for information; not a drop of pity in her tone to be found. Not to mention quick to knock Catra on her ass via very strong painkillers.

"Don't give me that look," she says, stand-offish. "Adora would kill me if I left you alone like this. So, let me help." She holds out her hand, quirking a brow at her. "Truce?"

"I..." Catra's mouth is bone dry and words escape her. She just nods, dropping the scissors into Sparkles' waiting palm. 

"Great. Now, hold still." 

The next fifteen minutes are silent and awkward, but not excruciating? Catra doesn't feel that surge to run away like she usually does when someone catches her in a vulnerable state. There's no way in hell she's going to start crying or spilling her guts or anything, but this moment—with Sparkles clipping her hair and humming absentmindedly—is oddly soothing. Catra could fall asleep standing up. But if anyone asks, she'll say it was absolutely unbearable. 

"There," says Sparkles, smiling at her work. "All done. What do you think?"

Catra admires her new look with a grain of salt. She runs her fingers through it once, shocked when her hand just drops off the back; nothing like what she’s used to. Catra’s always liked her hair long—in some ways it was a symbol of her pride—but she’ll admit: this new cut looks good, feels _lighter,_ more manageable. But most importantly, no one can ever touch her the way Shadow Weaver did again.

"Thanks, Sparkles," she mumbles, surprising herself. It just rolls off the tongue without prompting. 

Catra tenses when she sees Sparkles' reflection in the mirror, a gutted look on her face. 

"My name is not _Sparkles._ It's Glimmer!" 

For the first time in what feels like forever, Catra laughs. Laughs until it hurts. A full-on belly laugh. 

"You asshole," Glimmer whines, unamused. "You're gonna tear your stitches. Or maybe your cracked rib will pierce a lung, I don't know! And then I'll have to patch you up again—and I'm not feeling very generous right now, even if you are Adora's friend."

Catra's mouth clamps shut, pupils blown wide. Her heart is racing the Kentucky Derby now. All that laughter is sucked out of her and the mood falls off a cliff. 

Since she woke up, she hadn't thought of Adora—not once. Not even when Sparkles said her name earlier; she tuned it out. Catra had forgotten all about the fact that she was here, that she was alive. It's hard to avoid that fact now. 

"Wow," Glimmer blurts. "Just saying her name gets you all flustered." _Not the right word_ , Catra thinks, trying not to growl. "It's not happy, either, or excited. And Adora walks around like a kicked puppy if she so much as _thinks_ about you. What exactly happened between you two?"

Catra stares openly at Glimmer, not budging an inch. Adora didn't tell her their history together. Good, that makes things easier, gives her a leg up in this already complicated relationship. Sparkles has nothing on her, and Catra doesn't have to rehash the past if she doesn't want to. And boy, does she not want to. 

"I'm going back to bed," she grumbles, pushing past her.

And that's that. Catra's not supposed to be getting attached to these people, anyway. She's playing a part— _for Scorpia, Entrapta, the kids, and the others,_ she reminds herself. 

Shadow Weaver can go die in a fire like she was meant to. 

"You can't avoid Adora forever, y'know," Glimmer calls after her. 

Yeah, well, she can at least _pretend._

When Catra finally falls asleep again, she's back in that house from her childhood sharing a bed with a gap-toothed blonde girl giggling nonsense in her ear. 

It's the best sleep she's gotten in months.

* * *

For two days, she and Adora keep missing each other. 

It's not like Catra's actively trying to avoid her, either. She's bedridden, and she only pretended to be asleep _once._ Otherwise it was either Adora was passed out from exhaustion, or Catra was trying to sleep off the hell she went through.There's even a chair next to her bed that Adora's undoubtedly occupied a handful of times. It confuses Catra, how much Adora cares—though deep down she knows why.

Adora feels guilty. Nothing else. Or so Catra keeps telling herself, over and over again until it sticks. 

Glimmer and Bow (formerly Arrow Boy) visit a few times while she and Adora magically skirt around each other. Glimmer's mother—Angella, or whatever her name is—pops in, too, but those visits are strictly professional; you could cut the tension in the room with a knife every time she dropped by to check on Catra's injuries. She's not going to be an easy sell, that's for sure.

Meanwhile, Bow is off-putting to her, as in way too friendly. If Scorpia's a bleeding heart, Bow would gladly evict his from his chest and give it to you, free of charge. He's also high on life which is nerve-wracking for her to deal with. Catra asked Glimmer earlier today if she could have some of what he's having. She laughed.

"He's just like that," she said, a dreamy look in her eye.

In that moment, Catra read too far into her words and replied carelessly, "Wow, he must be a real gentleman in bed. You have a praise kink, Sparkles?" 

That earned her a kick in the teeth, figuratively speaking. 

But that's nothing compared to how Catra feels right now, hearing in a hushed voice:

"Catra?"

She straightens in bed, inhaling sharply. Her instincts tell her to run but it's not like she can. Ripping out her IV again doesn't sound appealing to her, and it's not like she has anywhere to run _to._ Adora's blocking her only exit. 

So, Catra does the next best thing. She smothers her face with her pillow.

"Really?" 

A small forgotten part of her wants to laugh at Adora's expense, because she sounds annoyed, exasperated—like they're kids again and Catra is acting prickly and trying to push her away. Except the clear hesitance in her voice, that pinch of doubt—silent to the untrained ear but not to hers—keeps the laughter at bay. The reality of the situation sinks in. 

Catra gasps when the bed dips by her feet. 

"You really scared me, y'know," Adora says quietly, still sounding like she's walking on eggshells. "I saw you walking down the street, bleeding out like that..." There's a pause, and Catra can see Adora's teeth digging into her lip, pillow or no pillow. "I already lost you once, I couldn't go through that again. Not like this." 

Catra's grip on the pillow loosens. 

"If you _died,_ I don't know what I would've—" 

"Adora," she offers meekly, tossing the pillow aside.

Her little burst of courage breaks at the sight of her ex-best friend, different but still the same in ways that make Catra's heart skip a beat. Last time they talked, Adora was _sixteen_ —and here they are, six years later. She's still wearing a ponytail with that stupid hair poof on top. Her eyes are still that crisp, cold blue. Where her face once had some baby fat to it, it's now sharp, angular, more mature. Catra can only imagine how much more muscular she is underneath her—

_Wait a minute._

"You still wear that?" Catra blurts, shocked to see a Horde varsity jacket, of all things. Not exactly what she imagined her first words to Adora would be, but it's too late to take them back now. 

Adora rubs away some tears. "I... I what?" From the look on her face, she's confused, but there's no doubt in Catra's mind that she's taking a second to drink in her new look as well. They've both grown up a bit, but that doesn't exactly change how they left things. 

"The jacket," she answers, keeping her face as neutral as possible. "You kept that?"

"Oh." Wait, is Adora blushing? "Yeah, it's... sentimental. Err, and comfy. Very comfy." Some kind of mental gymnastics is happening behind the scenes in Adora's head; it's written all over scrunched up face. At last, she follows up with, "Hey, it's great fashion sense for the end of the world, don't judge me." 

Catra snorts. "Oh my god, I forgot how awkward you are."

A tweak of insecurity flashes across Adora's face before she softens, smiling dumbly. "Yeah, yeah. Missed you, too."

Catra goes quiet, pushing down that innate response—a quip to keep their banter going—on the tip of her tongue. Her heart knocks against her sore rib cage, telling her that _yes, she did miss this._ Everything still aches for Adora. She tries to lean back into her anger, into her feelings of betrayal, but her heart keeps pinging in her chest and calling her a liar. She doesn't let it win, though. 

"Why'd you save me?" Catra asks, sidestepping the way Adora spilled her guts only moments ago. She needs to understand, needs to put things in better perspective for herself. 

Adora gapes at her, and Catra knows she's pinched a nerve. "What? Do you really think I'd just leave you out there to die? I told you, Catra, I couldn't _lose_ you." 

"You can't lose me, but you can leave me?" Catra scoffs. "Listen to yourself, Adora." The anger is settling back in now like a lost lover. "Admit it, you love playing the hero. This wasn't about saving me—it was all about stroking your stupid ego!" 

"That's not true!" 

"Tell me you didn't save me to make yourself _feel_ better. So you could cover your own ass and spare yourself the guilt." Speaking of, now Adora looks like the human incarnate of guilt—eyes blown wide, face strained in agony—but Catra can't stop pushing. "Tell me the truth, Adora!" 

"I'm sorry!" she cries, and Catra freezes like she's been struck by lightning, hit point blank by the sincerity in her voice. Tears start falling down Adora's face in a steady stream. She’s shaking now, an unraveling bundle of nerves.

"Catra, I'm so sorry," she sobs, a rattled echo in her chest. It's heartbreaking to listen to. "I never wanted to leave you. I... I can't lose you again. I _can't,_ please."

Catra never imagined that her first conversation with Adora after all this time—all this _hurt_ —would end with her ex-best friend curled up in her arms, sobbing. She could never see herself rubbing her back or whispering _it's okay_ under her breath. And she'd laugh if you told her she ghosted her lips into her friend's hair, as if she'd ever have the guts. But here she is all the same. Setting aside how her own body throbs under the strain and putting Adora first. 

Catra is still angry and too damaged for words, but she's not cold. She is not cruel. No matter how hard she tries to be, no matter what Shadow Weaver's ingrained in her. She just doesn't have it in her to kick Adora while she's down like this. 

So much for being a strong weapon forged from this world. 

"C-Catra?" Adora croaks, and _shit,_ she has no business looking that beautiful after ugly-crying into her chest. 

"Shhh," Catra whispers. "Don't talk. Please."

This isn't an "I forgive you" or a "We'll make it through this" kind of moment. They can't avoid their past forever—Catra knows that—but for now she'll let herself have this. Adora, too. 

They fall asleep like that, and all Catra can dream about now is how she'll have to destroy it all. 

_"You will pick them apart from the inside so that when the time comes, we will take what is ours."_

She startles awake to that voice, and the sound of Adora's thrumming heartbeat isn't enough to lull her back into her slumber. Instead, it keeps her awake, reminds her of what she'll have to face—what she’ll have to _break_ —to take care of the people that depend on her.

So really, Catra doesn't get a wink of sleep. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow. This chapter was _heavy._ I hope Catra's voice shined because it felt like she possessed me. And hah, I wrote another 7k before putting them in a room together; I'm the worst. But for all of two seconds I considered not having a reunion at all in this chapter, so I'd say I was merciful.
> 
> As a side note, don't expect me to sustain these lengthy word counts moving forward... but who knows? I also can't guarantee quick updates but I'll try my best. 
> 
> Can I issue a comments challenge as a fic writer? 'Cause I'm gonna. It'd be really cool if you guys commented your favorite line(s) or moment(s) from this chapter because I'm curious and I love attention. Any kind of comment that's not squealing for me to update really makes my day (it's honestly a great feeling/healthy dose of serotonin), so keep that in mind silent readers. See you guys next time!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Adora gets a reality check, her attempts to reach Catra don't go as planned, slivers of their past finally slip through the cracks, and Catra proves her worth. 
> 
> Alternatively: Adora is _yearning_ folks. And an anxious mess.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Um, I guess I should've said this from the get-go, but I'm also [soul-of-spades](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/soul-of-spades) on tumblr. Sometimes I post snippets of upcoming chapters and answer questions about the fic. In fact, if you've ever wondered about the apocalypse or if there'll be more Glitra friendship scenes—there's an ask for that already. Don't be afraid to stop by (we all know I love the attention). 
> 
> If any of y'all art for this fic or catch a whiff of art for this fic, let me know. I'm not an active twitter user and if there's art out there that I just don't know about... I'll _die._ I'll be writing from the grave. End tweet. Okay, I've said my piece, on with the show.

In her sleep, Adora's mind wanders to that exact moment where everything changed for her—the moment Catra fell limp in her arms, a death rattle wheezing past her lips. 

She gathered Catra up bridal-style, careful not to jostle the knife, and ran as fast as her legs could carry her. With each step, more blood soaked into her jacket, and Catra's breathing teetered between life and death. Adora couldn't think straight beyond just: _Catra is here, she is real, and she is **dying**. _

When she reached the flatbed gate, she was dumbfounded by it still being there. Closed, unmoved. 

"Open the gate!" she cried, all angry and desperate. Couldn't they see Catra was bleeding out? Didn't they realize this would shatter Adora into a million pieces if she just stood by and let it happen? 

"Adora, who is she?" called Glimmer from above, adjusting the rifle in her grip. As if she had the nerve to shoot Catra out of Adora's arms. Everyone knew she was a poor, unpracticed shot, anyway. Angella made sure of that. 

"Damn it!" She did _not_ have time for this bullshit. On a whim, Adora carefully lifted and placed Catra on the edge of the flatbed, using all of her strength, ready to climb—ready to do _anything_ to keep her long-lost friend alive. To her surprise, another pair of hands joined her in her crusade.

"Bow!" 

His head snapped back to Glimmer while he helped Adora move Catra over the clutter of debris-cover. "Are you serious right now? Cut the shit and help us!" Oh, this was no-nonsense Bow. She could work with that. _"Glimmer!"_

After an annoyed shriek-turned-growl, suddenly Adora had an entire collective helping her carry Catra to the clinic. Bow, Glimmer, Mermista, and Seahawk. It brought tears to her eyes. The unquestioned faith—minus Glimmer's hesitance—in her decision to save Catra was mind-boggling. Adora didn't feel like she deserved it, but she wasn't about to stop and debate it, either. 

"I can't believe we're doing this," whined Mermista, hip-checking the clinic's front doors open. 

"I'd say it's a noble act!" chimed Seahawk. The delicacy in which he carried Catra's leg (and Mermista the other) was very appreciated. Bow and Glimmer carefully handled the sides while Adora cradled Catra's head and shoulders.

"Mom's gonna kill me," groaned Glimmer, side-eyeing her. Adora didn't have a retort, just a stern look that said: _I really don't care, and we're doing this, end of discussion._

Speaking of Angella... 

"What on earth is going on?" 

They all froze in the clinic lobby, holding what could've appeared to be a corpse but actually was a person— _her_ person—clinging to life. While everyone shared anxious looks, wilting under Angella's icy stare, Adora felt Catra's pulse weaken and her breathing stutter. Her heart just about grew legs and ran up her throat, stating plainly:

"I am _not_ abandoning her." Her eyes hardened into marbled stone. "You will save her. You have to." 

Never had Adora spoken to Angella with such gall before, and that realization washed over the rest of the group. Bow gasped. Glimmer was caught between slow-clapping for Adora and shooting daggers at her with her eyes. Mermista looked ready to phase out of existence. And Seahawk... he just chuckled awkwardly like someone had him in a chokehold. 

Angella's stare melted slightly, her frown softening. "Who is she to you?" It was an opening for Adora to plead her case. 

"Her name is C-Catra," she answered, voice shaking as the tears began pouring out of her. "And I don't want her to die. Please, I-I can't lose her. Not again. N-Not like _this."_

The shocking revelation fell over the room like a storm cloud. No one spoke, no one even breathed—except Catra, and that was hardly breathing. They all stared at her with such pity, that Adora found herself looking down at Catra's face for some inkling of reassurance. At the brutal sight of her, she got none. Then, time started skipping. 

Suddenly, Catra was on a gurney being rushed down the hall with Angella pushing her along and shouting orders to everyone. Adora stayed close, instinctively clutching Catra's hand. She felt as if she was going through the motions, jumping from one moment to the next, until a question finally grabbed her attention.

"Do you know her blood type?" Angella asked, in a rush. 

"O-negative," Adora replied without missing a beat. 

Glimmer's eyes widened in panic. "Mom, we don't—" They didn't have any O-negative blood in their reserves (ran out of the universal blood donor type over a year ago), but Adora was one step ahead of them, figuring: _why not take straight from the tap?_

Adora rolled up her sleeve. "Use me. Take whatever she needs." 

And that was that. They could consider the logistics of organizing a clinic blood drive in the future when Catra wasn't dying. As they drained a full two and a half units of pure O-negative out of her, Adora refused to succumb to exhaustion. She stayed by Catra's side through thick and thin. No one could get her to move, not even while they were operating to remove the knife and stop the bleeding—she was a boulder set on staying put. If Catra died, she had to be there; if she lived, again, she _had_ to be there. No if's, and's, or but's about it. 

Finally, when everything was said and done, Angella stripped off her gloves, faced Adora, and said with such finality, "She'll live." And Adora nearly blacked out on the spot. 

Alternatively, in the present, Adora slowly wakes up. 

She is warm, blissfully relaxed, and snug-as-a-bug, which is a far-cry from normal for her. Hell, she feels rejuvenated, even. She's usually a restless sleeper, always wrestling around and never finding a position that actually feels comfortable. Too soft, too hot, too quiet, too much room—that's her reality every time she tries to fall asleep. Nothing _grounds_ her, which begs the question...

What's grounding her now?

The soft, rhythmic breathing tousling her hair from above answers her question. 

Adora freezes, eyes blown wide, because _holy hell she fell asleep on Catra._ Not only that, but Adora's face is smothering her chest. _J_ _ust kill her now and make it quick._ She can feel her friend's heartbeat, the steady hand resting on the small of her back. Her mind is a whirlwind of questions. That is, until she remembers how she ended up here in the first place. 

_"Catra, I'm so sorry. I never wanted to leave you. I... I can't lose you again. I **can't** , please."_

_"Don't talk. Please."_

That conversation wasn't what she hoped it would be, that's for sure. As always, Catra cut straight through the small talk and hit the beating heart of their entire interaction like a bullet—Adora left Catra, that _hurt_ Catra, and it's all Adora's fault. As if she wouldn't take it all back if she could.

_"It's okay to be selfish sometimes. You did what you did to save yourself, Adora. There's no shame in that. I'd actually call it an act of bravery."_

How can Adora call herself brave when she failed to save Catra, too? How can she live with that guilt? Mara was loving and patient with Adora—so was Hope—but for all of their wisdom, neither of them could possibly understand what it was like to live in that house. Only Catra does, and Adora left her _alone._

Adora pushes those thoughts down as far as they can go, deciding instead to focus on the here and now. As in, how does she untangle herself from Catra without waking her up? Because she really doesn't want to deal with _that_ awkward confrontation. 

Adora takes a deep breath of courage, bracing her arms at Catra's sides, and slowly lifts her head off her chest. The rest of her body follows, painstakingly slow. Of course, mistake number one occurs when she decides to take a gander at Catra's face... and inevitably finds herself distracted in the process.

Catra is the definition of beauty. At least, to Adora she is, but she highly doubts anyone would argue against her. So much about Catra has changed, but so much has stayed the same, too. Even when they're closed, Adora can imagine her eyes clear as day—one blue, one goldish-brown, both a pleasure to get lost in. She still has those adorable freckles polka-dotting her cheeks around her nose. The hair is, well, _different_ , but not something Adora can't get used to. Man, what she'd give to be able to run her fingers through—

 _No, bad Adora._ She can't afford to think like that right now.Here she is, performing the most awkward plank ever, thinking mushy thoughts about the girl who clearly doesn't feel the same way about her and, up until a couple days ago, Adora thought was _gone._ Not exactly a great time to get caught up in old feelings. Said girl is also beneath her, which that fact alone is enough to make Adora want to burst into flames. This is not how she imagined _topping_ Catra. 

So yeah, lots to unpack there, but she settles on getting out of this train wreck of a situation ASAP. 

With all the finesse she can muster, Adora carefully lifts her leg over Catra. Her arm follows suit. Mistake number two: the finesse leaves her high and dry once Adora realizes a second too late that she's run out of bed. She flops onto the floor like a fish out of water, flailing around in the sheets and clamping a hand over her mouth to muffle her shriek. Luckily, all she gets in return is an airy sigh from Catra, still wonderfully asleep.

Adora accepts her tiny victory with a relieved sigh of her own. She stands up, brushes herself off, and risks another glance at Catra. 

Upon further evaluation, she can't help but take inventory of Catra's injuries with no sheet or blanket to cover the extent of them. Her swelled up cheek with stitches tape to close the gash in the center of it. The bruising along her left arm and parts of her side, not to mention the dark-purplish area on her stomach above the waistband of her compression shorts. A pad of gauze covers where the knife had been, stained slightly by a spot of red. Even the bags under Catra's eyes—proving she hasn’t slept much recently—cuts deep under Adora's skin. 

Her hands close into fists. Whoever did this to her would feel Adora's wrath, and that's a promise she intends to keep. For all the shit Catra gives her for her "hero complex", she isn't ready to let it go—not if it means letting the asshole who did this off the hook. 

_Old habits die hard,_ Adora thinks, shrugging. 

She covers Catra with the sheet, letting her hand briefly brush over hers, and leaves the room without a word. 

And walks straight into a tiny human—Kyle, if her memory of his little cry is correct. His mop of blond hair confirms it. She catches him before he falls, apologizing under her breath. Rogelio is behind him, silent, as always. 

"You okay?"

"Y-Yeah," he murmurs, shaken up. To her surprise, he follows up quickly with, "She's the person you used to know. Catra, I mean... she made you sad before."

Adora's knees could buckle right then and there, in shock at being called out like that with no warning, but instead she replies, "How do you know her name?"

Kyle looks like a deer caught in headlights. Rogelio takes his hand and squeezes it to reassure him, probably. With a shaky breath, he answers, "Sorry, I-I didn't mean to spy. She looked dead before, and Lonnie wanted to see, even when I-I said it was a bad idea and then—"

"Hey," Adora says, smiling softly. "It's okay. I'm not mad."

Kyle slumps against Rogelio, his relief palpable. "Thank you."

"You're welcome?"

Then, just like that, it's over. Kyle and Rogelio scamper down the hall with nothing left to say. Before they hit the end of the hallway, Lonnie appears around the corner, immediately making eye contact with Adora (on purpose or by accident, she doesn't know). The look on her face is serious, almost troubled. The boys breeze past her but she doesn't budge. Her stare cuts straight through Adora, but she honestly can't say why—it just does. 

And then Lonnie disappears from her sight. 

* * *

Not too long after her strange run-in with the kids, Adora is cornered by Angella.

“Adora, a word please.”

Adora swallows anxiously and nods, following Angella down the shorter hallway with their storage closet and office-turned-mini-gym. She's been dreading this conversation. It's not unknown to her that Angella's given Catra a cold reception outside of treating her wounds (and even _then)._ She hasn't exactly spoken to Angella since she begged for her to save Catra's life, or even when Angella gave her a sedative—and there lies the root of the problem. Adora never asked permission, she just took action, completely ignoring Angella's _protocol._ Not even Glimmer had the balls to do that. 

Her front teeth dig viciously into her bottom lip. 

"You've put me in a difficult position," she says finally, kneading her fingers into her temples. "I understand that Catra means a lot to you, but her presence here potentially puts everyone at risk."

"Catra's not dangerous," Adora responds flatly, surprising herself with a spurt of anger at Angella's accusation. It's funny how easy these old feelings resettle inside her. Defending Catra was once second nature, and now here she is, back at it again. 

Angella's face doesn't flinch at her outburst. "Can you honestly say without a shadow of a doubt that you still _know_ this girl? That after all these years, she hasn't changed... and you still trust her?"

Adora falters, hesitant with her answer. Her gut wants to scream _yes,_ _she still knows Catra._ But in truth, can she really say that? This world changes people—of course Catra isn't who she was back in high school or just "before" in general, but Adora wants to believe that she still understands her heart like no one else can. She _gets_ Catra, and Catra gets her. Six years and an apocalyptic event shouldn't change that. Or so she hopes. 

"You need to understand," Angella insists, her expression darkening. "The last time we welcomed an injured stranger within our walls, my husband—the man who _saved_ that young boy's life—was murdered in cold blood. Others, too. You remember."

Adora could never forget that day even if she tried. That boy's group swarmed them and repaid their generosity with bullets. They only barely survived that fight. Adora had to _kill_ people. 

"I will _not_ lose my daughter," Angella continues passionately. "Or anyone else over someone we don't know, whether she's a childhood friend or not."

Adora steels herself the best she can. "Catra... she's not a threat, I promise. She would never do anything like that." 

"I know you want to believe that what you're saying is true—and maybe it is—but I'm still going to talk to her. And if I don't like what she has to say, I will have no choice but to banish her."

Adora's heart sinks at the thought. She only _just_ got Catra back. "But—"

"That's my final say on the matter." Angella must notice how Adora's face falls, because she reaches out to rest her hands on her shoulders—a motherly gesture, Adora's come to realize. "I'm sorry. This is the last thing I want to do to you. You don't deserve this... but I can't take any risks. Not with lives at stake."

Adora's eyes burn holes between her toes as she nods her understanding. She just has to believe that Catra will pass Angella's test. She _has_ to. 

"I hate to burden you even more, but there's something else," starts Angella, eyes crinkled with concern. She turns to open the door to their storage closet and Adora's left staring at shelves storing miscellaneous food items and supplies—only it's barely enough to sustain a group of their size for three weeks at most.

"Oh shit," she blurts.

"As you can see, violence isn't my only concern." Angella frowns. "I couldn't possibly leave those children on the side of the road, but I couldn't stop thinking about this, either. Having more mouths to feed, more people to look after." She sighs in defeat. "This isn't the kind of responsibility I'd wish on anyone."

"What about Perfuma's crops?" Living off the land has been Perfuma's pet project for years. Sadly, the weather hasn't cooperated much, not until very recently. 

Angella shakes her head. "Nothing we have is in season for at least a couple of months. We won't grow anything in time, especially not after that storm this past fall that destroyed last year's harvest."

Adora's gut swirls with impending doom, ready to throw up at a moment's notice on an empty stomach. She knew this conversation was going to take a harsh turn, but not off a freakin' _cliff._ Catra might be exiled and their food supply is dwindling down to nothing—what's worse than that?

"We're going to have to make a run, far outside our comfort zone," Angella says with a grain of salt tinting her words. "Perhaps that food bank down the road. There's a chance that the 'shoot first, ask questions later' group has moved on or died out. I'm sure we have options. We just have to hold on to hope."

Adora nods. "Right. I'll take a team out there in the next few days, after Catra heals up some more"— _and is potentially thrown out on her ass_ —"and we'll find something. I won't let you down."

Angella smiles weakly. "You never do." 

When they finally part ways, Adora runs to the nearest exit, swings the door open, and upchucks the can of beans she ate the night before. 

Once again, the weight of the world seems to rest on her shoulders. _No pressure,_ she thinks bitterly, and throws up again.

* * *

The next day, Adora is invited to stand in during Catra's interrogation. Glimmer is also invited, which seems a little strange considering Angella rarely gets her daughter involved in these kinds of things. Could this be her way of shouldering the responsibility, getting prepared to eventually pass the torch? If so, Adora isn't sure if Glimmer's ready for it yet. At least not by the way she's been acting lately. 

"I wanna know what the smartmouth has to say," Glimmer says nonchalantly before they walk in together. Adora rolls her eyes and almost bluntly replies: _well aren't you one to talk._

"Wow. This isn't intimidating at all," says Catra flatly from her spot on the bed, and Adora has to resist the urge not to make a face. Catra and her first impressions... doesn't she understand the stakes?

"I apologize if you feel uncomfortable," Angella says, unnervingly calm. "But this isn't going to be a light conversation." 

"Yeah, kinda caught that vibe." _Catra please stop while you're ahead._ "I'm an open book, lady. Ask me anything you want."

In the background, Glimmer scoffs as if to say _open book, my ass._ Luckily, Angella cuts her off before she can let those words slip. 

"Were you on your own before we found you?"

Adora perks up, honestly curious. This question is to test Catra's sanity; those left on their own for too long don't usually play well with others, and their psyche could be shattered (much like Adora's was). Not to mention if she does have a group, are they friend or foe?

She really hopes Catra at least had one person with her all this time. It would hurt like hell to know that she's been alone since the beginning, especially after Adora left her that way before. 

"Yeah. Not for too long, though," Catra answers, eyes hard with something Adora can't quite read. Sorrow? Regret? "Just a few weeks. Lost a good friend of mine. She was... honestly a bleeding heart, didn't deserve to die like that."

"How did she die?" Glimmer asks, voice soft. 

"Blood infection. Got cut up on something and the wound got infected. With no antibiotics... well, you guys are doctors. You know how the story goes."

Angella nods gravely. "So there's no one out there looking for you. No one who will... hurt us, to get to you."

"Nah, I'm a loner." Her eyes find Adora's as she adds, "Pretty sure there's not a single person out there who still gives a damn about me." _Except you,_ Adora wants to read between the lines. She'd hate to think Catra thought otherwise.

"Have you ever hurt someone?" 

Catra chuckles, all rough and scratchy. It's too reminiscent of the echoes Adora would hear in her head. "Are you serious? I know you guys have been cooped up for a while, but the outside world isn't exactly a walk in the park. So yeah, I've hurt people. Killed some, too. Anything to survive." Catra coughs into her fist, likely realizing the implications of what she just shared. "It's all self defense, of course. Get them before they get me. Plain and simple."

"So the claws," Glimmer says, raising a brow. "Those are just for self defense?"

Catra nods and holds up her hands, flexing her fingers with a grin. "And a killer fashion statement." 

No one laughs at the joke. Adora just facepalms as quietly as she can. 

"Okay," Catra mumbles, curling inwards. "Tough crowd."

"Where were you when the world ended?" Angella asks, ignoring Catra's wisecrack. Again, Adora sits on the edge of her seat (even while standing). Her curiosity is prickling with anticipation.

Catra's face tightens, on the verge of becoming a scowl. "I was... running away from something. Something I was afraid of." Adora's teeth start burrowing into her lip. "Next thing I knew, the world lost its shit and I was stranded right in the middle of it. Found some people, lost some people, wandered down the west coast. Now I'm here."

"Now you're here," Angella repeats, and her tone makes Adora feel uneasy.

"This isn't some trick, right?" Glimmer butts in, crossing her arms. "You're not playing us... pretending to get hurt to get inside our walls."

Catra laughs as if the mere idea is absolute blasphemy. Adora can't help but agree. "Sparkles, you call _this_ pretending?" She gestures to all of her bruises and her stab wound. "Do you really think I'd get beat up like this on purpose? _Stab_ myself? You're reaching with that one. I'm not some masochist. Shit hurts."

For a moment, Adora's mind drifts to all the injuries she's seen on Catra over the years—compliments of Ms. Weaver's "stellar" foster-parenting and Catra's own temper. Catra was never one to show weakness, always hiding her pain behind a mask of indifference. She even lashed out whenever Adora tried to stand up for her ( _"It'll just make things worse, Adora,"_ she said). But when she was little, Catra actually showed Adora how much things hurt; she cried and used Adora for shelter (which Adora welcomed with open arms) until she eventually found her sharp edges and mask instead. 

Adora could never believe Catra would hurt herself like this on purpose. Not after what they'd been through. Never. 

"If not self-inflicted, how did you get injured?"

"Couple of toolbags thought they could take a pass at me. Tied me to a chair, hit me with a baseball bat"—Adora winces, all too familiar with the feeling—"got a lick in, hence the lovely contour on my face. I cut out of my restraints and got the jump on them... didn't see the knife until it was too late. I was lucky they were too freaked out to stick around. Otherwise, I might've never made it here."

The story is just so _Catra._ She used to pick fights a lot, whether at school or on the field. She was always itching to prove herself to anyone who challenged her; anyone who pissed her off. Hell, how could Adora forget the game where the batter knocked her unconscious with a clean line drive that hit her square in the head? When she came to, Catra was being held back by the ump, and the batter was nursing a bloody nose, her helmet yanked off and coated in dirt. After that, everyone in the league took the hint that their team's shortstop was very protective of her pitcher. 

Catra's always been a fighter. Just another thing Adora admires about her—when it's not getting her into trouble, that is. 

"Please tell me you kicked their asses," Glimmer says, sounding oddly excited. First she's hot, then she's cold, and then she's hot again—oh no, her and Catra could be _sisters._

"Glimmer—"

Catra smirks, interrupting Angella with no tact. "Dug my claws into one guy's face, and the other guy got a taste of his own medicine when I snatched his baseball bat. I'd say I wrecked their shit pretty good."

"Savage."

"I know, right?" 

Angella pinches the bridge of her nose. "We've gotten off-topic. Catra, while I appreciate how... _forthcoming_ you're being, I won't stand here and pretend like your answers don't sound rehearsed."

Adora starts to break a sweat. She never considered that. Catra's always been a good smooth-talker. She's arguably the better social butterfly between the two of them, but on the same note she's also not a people person. Adora is awkward at times, but for some reason people flock to her. It's never made sense— _they_ never made sense. Only, they complimented each other so well (and still do, she hopes). 

But she really, _really_ hopes Catra isn't lying. They're too out of sync from years apart for Adora to catch her in one. 

"I get it, you're paranoid." Catra twiddles her thumbs in her lap. "I'm not the type to wear my emotions on my sleeve. Just ask Adora." At that, Adora nods dumbly. Yep, that fact is the source of a lifelong torment for her. "So, I'm sorry if my answers don't sound genuine. It's the truth... I might be good at sugarcoating it, but that doesn't mean I don't feel it." 

There's a long pause for Angella to soak in Catra's words, and Adora can taste blood in her mouth. Finally, Angella speaks. 

"I don't trust you, but I don't think you're a threat, either."

Adora's not quite sure what to do with that, but she stays hopeful. Meanwhile, Catra looks awfully tense like she's not sure what to think. 

"I will let you stay here until your wounds heal. Perhaps even after, if you prove yourself worthy of it. For the time being you will be put on probation." Angella holds out her arm, gesturing to Adora. "Adora will look after you and keep you in line. I figure since you two have history, it’ll help you… adjust, so to speak."

Adora blinks. "I'm doing what now?"

"You're giving me a _babysitter?"_ Catra gawks. 

Glimmer snickers, far too smug for her own good. 

"Will this be a problem?" Angella asks, using her authoritative voice. It's also the _"don't talk back"_ voice and the _"you don't have a choice"_ voice. Glimmer must be living it up not being on the other side of it for once. 

Adora shakes her head, putting on a brave face. "No, ma'am. Not a problem." 

Catra groans. "Fine. Adora can be my escort or whatever."

Adora really hopes her blush isn't obvious; she'd been helplessly triggered by Catra's choice of words. Judging by Catra's knowing smirk, she is _not_ in the clear. 

All that really matters is Catra isn't being kicked out, Adora reminds herself. She's staying. And if Adora has to act like a glorified babysitter to keep it that way, then so be it. 

She'll do anything to make Catra stay. 

* * *

On Adora's first day of Catra guard duty (or babysitting detail, as Glimmer eloquently put it), they don't talk and hardly acknowledge each other—but if she's being honest it's mostly a one-sided affair.

Catra doesn't leave the bed except to use the bathroom, and it's as if she's trying to force herself asleep every waking second just to avoid Adora. And when sleep eludes her, Catra seems to think that staring blankly up at the ceiling for hours on end is better than giving her childhood best friend the time of day. To say that hurts is an understatement. 

When Adora tries to break the ice...

"Don't." 

And she slumps back down into her chair with a defeated sigh. Adora really wishes she hadn't melted into a puddle of tears the other night. Maybe then she and Catra would be able to bridge this gap between them without that "emotional baggage" weighing them down. Only, their entire relationship feels like a busload of baggage that needs to be unpacked, so who is she kidding?

* * *

On day two, Catra finally acknowledges her, though begrudgingly. And Adora can suddenly empathize with her punching bag because Catra pulls no punches. 

"You must be getting off on this."

 _Nope, not really,_ she thinks. 

"You should just leave. It's what you're good at."

Oh, that one stings. But if this is what Catra needs to process her recent trauma—as Perfuma would likely say—Adora will gladly run herself through the sword to help her feel better. 

"Your hair poof is still the dumbest thing I've ever seen, by the way. And I bet you still wear that stupid ponytail in your sleep. You're gonna go bald before you're thirty, dumbass."

Okay, that's just being petty. Why does _that_ one strike a nerve? Still, Adora says nothing.

A sigh. "Why won't you just go away?"

Because Adora has already made her promise to stay. She did the second she jumped over that wall.

* * *

On the morning of day three, Adora is hopelessly confused by an enormous shift in Catra's demeanor. 

"I feel disgusting," gripes Catra, sitting on the edge of her bed. "I gotta wash up or something. I'm sick of sleeping in my own filth." 

"We have showers," Adora offers, voice uncertain. Catra is both herself and not herself at the same time. They're on speaking terms again, and it's... casual? Enough to make Adora's head spin. One second Catra’s acting flirty, and then the next she's lashing out or closing herself off like before. Adora doesn't know what's worse: the bristling cold shoulder, or the senseless flirting without a drop of feeling behind it.

Did their conversation ending with Adora sobbing into her chest even happen? 

Catra's eyes light up like stars and Adora catches herself getting lost in them. "Did you just say showers? As in, actual working showers? Hot water and everything?"

"I mean, we try to conserve as much hot water as we can but—"

Catra grins and it's a lot for Adora to take in. "Mind _escorting_ me to the showers, Adora?"

And here they are now, in the community bathing room—as close as Adora's gotten to locker room showers from the olden days. Six tiny stalls with shoddy curtains, cold tile underneath their feet, and the questionable aroma of sweat and body spray. Where Seahawk even found the Axe body spray, she'll never know; why he uses it is another beast altogether. 

"Smells like teenage boy in here," Catra remarks dryly, but her eyes are drawn to the shower heads like they're a sign from God (if one even still exists). 

"Yeah, that's Seahawk."

Catra quirks a brow at her, a silent question that asks: _the guy's name is Seahawk?_ Or at least, Adora hopes she's translated it right. She just shrugs in response. 

"So..."

Adora perks up. "Yeah?"

"You gonna watch or something?"

Adora turns absolutely scarlet and quickly twists on her heels to face away from her. "No!" she yelps, feeling the flush travel down her neckline when Catra laughs. 

"You're such an easy tease," she purrs, and Adora hates (loves) the way the words roll off her tongue.

Adora almost turns around to defend her honor, but then the sound of clothes dropping on the floor stops her dead in her tracks. She stays rooted in place—eternally grateful that the sink mirrors aren't on the wall she's facing or she'd immediately go into cardiac arrest. When Catra turns the water on, Adora knows she's in some kind of trouble. She doesn't know what yet, but it's coming. 

"Your anxiety's still pretty bad, huh?"

Ah, shower small talk. But when will Catra cut the chatter and force her to break down into guilty tears again? For now, she relaxes only slightly. On guard, but not stiff as a board like before. Her grip on Catra's towel and new batch of clean clothes slackens a bit. 

"Yeah. The whole 'end of the world' thing kind of made it hard to keep up with my meds. And it honestly just fuels it, so," she trails off, not sure what else to say. 

"Sorry. That must really suck."

An apology? From _Catra?_ Adora nearly does a double-take but catches herself just in time. 

"Uh, thanks?" 

"Y'know," Catra says, voice curling in pitch. "You're acting pretty weird considering we used to talk like this all the time in the locker room." 

Yeah, well, even back then Adora thought she was walking on shards of glass. The locker room helped Adora experience her gay awakening with no one there to criticize her for it, and said breadwinner of that gay awakening is literally standing in a shower stall right behind her. Give her a break.

As if sharing a room as kids and awkward preteens wasn't bad enough. It was both a blessing and a curse when Ms. Weaver insisted they have separate rooms when they turned thirteen—not that Adora stayed that much longer after that. 

"I think I'm acting the right amount of weird, all thing's considered." She pauses, tacking on, "It's been _six years,_ Catra."

Six years since their friendship fell apart in one huge argument. 

"Don't remind me," Catra grumbles, switching to cold shoulder mode. The chit-chat flatlines for a few minutes. Clearly talking about the elephant in the room is off limits. Then, "You like your new friends?" 

Now that question comes out of left field. "Do you mean Glimmer and Bow?" Those are the only friends of hers Catra's interacted with (consciously), and they are who she's closest to.

When only falling water answers her, Adora says, "Yeah, they're pretty great. I kind of thought you and Glimmer hit it off. I mean, you two are so similar, and she—"

"I'm nothing like Sparkles!" Somehow Adora can imagine the insulted look on Catra's face. "She's all glittery and up in your face about stuff. Been on my case since day one."

Adora raises a brow. "You mean since you fell into our laps looking like a bloody corpse?" Probably too soon to joke about it—Adora's surprised she even can after all the nightmares she's had where Angella told her Catra didn't make it instead of "she'll live"—but she can't take it back now. Catra's vulgar sense of humor must be contagious. 

"Exactly. You get it." And Adora is _safe_.

She nods to herself, slightly amused. The amusement fades when the water shuts off and she hears the pitter-patter of wet feet creep up behind her. 

"Towel, _escort."_

Adora's face heats up again. "I really wish you'd stop calling me that."

"And you know that's why I won't." 

_Ass,_ she thinks. Adora blindly whips the towel over her shoulder, hoping to hit her mark. At Catra's surprised shriek, she grins, satisfied with her aim. That of course also means Catra is a lot closer—and _naked_ —than Adora thought, but best not to dwell on that.

"Your towel, my liege," she says as smoothly as she can, but her voice stumbles into a giggle. 

Catra rips the towel out of her grip. "I hate you so much." 

"Oh, you know you like me," Adora teases, suddenly feeling like she's finally gotten the upper hand. "Just admit it."

"Not until my dying breath," Catra says dramatically.

Without thinking, Adora utters, "I've already heard that before." 

Their easy back-and-forth banter flatlines again. Leave it to Adora to poke the sleeping bear in the room with a stick _twice_. An agonizing two minutes float by, but who's counting? (Adora isn't, obviously). 

Catra clears her throat. "Um, I've got a weird request."

"Shoot," Adora says, overeager to break the silence. 

"I want my old clothes back. The ones I came here with." A beat. "Please tell me you guys didn't burn them or something."

Again, another question Adora's not expecting—this time from right field, she'll say. "What? No, we don't burn clothes. I mean, we planned on washing them and just haven't gotten around to it yet, but..." Her words drop off, signaling a silent _why_ out into the open air. Adora hopes Catra's keen enough to understand. 

"Look, obviously I'll wear whatever clean clothes you give me. I'm not about to walk around here looking like Carrie after prom." Adora snorts at that, and the tension in Catra's voice relaxes. "It's just that those clothes are _mine,_ and not a lot is 'yours' these days. It's... sentimental, like you said."

Finally, Catra references _the talk._ Even in passing it feels good knowing that entire conversation hasn't been wiped clean from existence. 

Adora looks down at her varsity jacket—noticing small stains of Catra's blood if she squints—and still feels that strong possessiveness curl up inside her chest. Yeah, she gets it. 

"I can get those for you."

"Before they get washed?"

An odd request indeed, but Adora just goes with it. "Before they get washed," she repeats as a confirmation. 

"Thank you."

Adora wordlessly transfers Catra's new clothes to her without looking. A few minutes pass, and Catra finally gives her the go-ahead to look with a tap on her shoulder. Adora turns, feasts her eyes on Catra, and _wow._

The army-camouflage jacket with the maroon tank top underneath fit her perfectly, and so do the washed-out grey cargo pants and black athletic boots. Catra looks like a model for the end of the world, and Adora can't help but appreciate the view. 

"You're giving me the creepy stalker stare," Catra says matter-of-factly, sounding off alarms in Adora's head. "It's kinda freaking me out. Do I look okay or not?"

“You look great,” Adora says quickly, cheeks dusted with pink. She tries to recover but keeps blundering ahead. "And did I mention that I like your new haircut?"

"No, you didn't," says Catra, one eyebrow raised, mouth twisting into something Adora's not sure she's ready for. "But thanks... I like it, too."

Catra's smile is the softest Adora's seen in years. There's a shyness to it that's completely eluded her since she showed up on the clinic's front doorstep half-dead. No flirty tease or sharp-toothed jab follows in its wake, and it _stays_. Catra doesn't even try to hide it. Adora could settle on seeing that smile every day for the rest of her life, but she promised herself she wouldn't slip into old feelings. 

Especially not back into unrequited ones. 

The trance breaks and the smile disappears as Catra says plainly, "So, bloody clothes first, and then I could really use a breath of fresh air." A smirk takes its place and Adora quickly decides it is not the same. "What do you think, _escort?"_

Catra adds a little wink and Adora just groans in reply. 

* * *

Adora gives Catra back her bloody rags that were once clothes. She might've failed to mention that Angella cut through the undershirt before she operated—but there's a bloody knife hole in it, anyway. Adora doubts Catra wants _that_ as a keepsake. 

As it turns out, she doesn't. Catra seems far more interested in her ripped-up jeans than anything else, pulling out what looks like a folded up piece of notebook paper from one of the pockets. Adora thinks about asking what it is but keeps quiet, too afraid to break whatever comfortable existence they have right now. 

"Shit, this looks worse than my first period," Catra says after pocketing the note, holding up the bloody jeans like they're a souvenir of war. She looks absolutely ridiculous. "What? It was bad. Like that scene out of _The Shining_ bad. You remember, you were there. We both thought I was dying."

Adora shakes her head, smiling. "You ever think before you say stuff like that?"

"Always, princess," Catra says with a smug grin. "It's part of my charm."

The old nickname makes Adora's heart grow wings and flutter inside her chest. She bites her lip to keep from commenting on it, as if avoiding their unresolved feelings will actually salvage their friendship. 

Like every little chat with Perfuma's taught her: avoidance is not the right path to healing. It only makes things worse. In the spirit of that, Adora originally wanted to ask Catra earlier about their heated talk the other night; she wanted to try and fix things and come to some kind of understanding. Hell, she should've woke Catra up the morning after and faced the music _then._ But her and Catra are just too good at burying their problems, so what's the use?

It's so much easier just to pretend like everything's okay, anyway.

They migrate outside at Catra's insistence. It's sunny and warm with a nice breeze whistling through the leaves—a beautiful spring day. No use in wasting it by digging up all their dirt, Adora reasons. 

Catra rushes out to the edge of the barricaded field and falls flat on her back in the grass, all giddy and clearly stir-crazy after being cooped up inside for days. Adora is concerned about her injuries for a moment but then figures no one knows their limits better than Catra and leaves it be. She is ready to cut loose out of the parking lot and join her when a hand lightly grabs her arm. 

"Adora, you have a second?" asks Bow, looking worse for wear. He's hardly chipper, more on edge than usual. He isn't smiling, either. 

"What's wrong?" 

His face looks pained. "It's Glimmer." He catches Adora glimpsing over her shoulder, trying to keep an eye on Catra, and says, "I know you've got a lot on your plate right now, but I'm seriously worried about her. First she steals that gun from the armory, and then her mom's walkie. And look, I know Catra is your friend—I respect that—but we don't know what she's been through. She could've easily hurt Glimmer while she cut her hair, and we would've never known until it was too late." 

His anxious chatter doesn't sit well with her, especially not the part where he suggests Catra could've hurt Glimmer—that does _not_ compute—but Adora bites her tongue and listens. Even if he's off the mark about Catra, his concern is still valid. 

"She's acting reckless." At Adora's subconscious _really?_ look, he sighs and adds, "More reckless than normal."

"Have you asked her about it?" A stupid question in hindsight, knowing Bow, but Adora has to ask. She has to be thorough. 

"Yeah. She won't tell me anything." _Oh, and these two tell each other everything,_ she thinks. It's their thing. "When I tried, she got all defensive." He groans and buries his face in his hands. "Gah, it's just so frustrating!" _Love usually is._ "What about you? Has she said anything to you?"

She feels the guilt start to creep in as she replies, "No. We butt heads a little, but that wasn't out of the ordinary. She and her mom were fighting on the trip home from up north, too... but that wasn't strange either. The gun was new, though."

Glimmer's antsy to prove herself, but Adora doesn't need to tell Bow something he already knows. 

The stone cold truth is: Adora's been so hyper-focused on Catra lately that she's blatantly ignored all of her other friends in the process. How could she give in to tunnel vision like that? _Catra, Catra, Catra._ Is that all she cares about now? Glimmer is acting out, Bow is upset about it, and their food reserves are on their last legs—but Catra's the only thing that matters, right? Adora could scream over her own short-sighted negligence. 

Their entire camp depends on her to stay at the top of her game. Adora can't afford to let them down. Disappointing them is _not_ an option.

Bow nods, his frown etched permanently into his features for the foreseeable future. "Promise you'll keep an eye on her for me, when you can?"

"Of course. I'll try to talk to her, too." She gives him a reassuring smile. "See if I can get through to her. You have my word."

The frown leaves, but just for a fraction of a second. "Thank you." 

To lift his spirits even a smidgen, Adora pulls Bow into a hug. He accepts it gladly, almost melting into it. Bow is the best hugger she knows—so it's really telling for her to admit that she's the alpha-hugger in this moment. Bow is reacting to _her_ touch, not the other way around. She is comforting him. It's unnervingly out of character. 

When they separate, Bow mumbles his thanks again and drags his feet back to his tent to hunker down and mope—and he _never_ mopes. Bow is not a moper. He is the glue that keeps everyone together with his gentle heart and overwhelming sense of positivity. This isn't like him at all. 

Adora shakes her head and slowly walks across the field, weaving in and out of tents to meet up with Catra. Her head is spiraling thinking about Glimmer, because she _knew_ something was off. She wasn't blind. Her frustration over wanting to help the best she can, her insistence on being able to handle herself, and her blatant disregard for danger—all red flags, and ones Adora's _noticed._

Adora stops once she reaches Catra, who's taking what appears to be a nice little cat nap in a patch of tall grass. Her arms are folded neatly behind her head and her legs are crossed at the knee. The look on her face is tranquil, undisturbed. Before she realizes, Adora's staring, but her thoughts are still going off on a tangent about Glimmer. 

"Relax," Catra says without opening her eyes, surprising Adora. "I can hear you thinking."

Adora catches on and stops tapping her foot. Her teeth bury into her lip as the thoughts keep coming, because _why didn't she say something to Glimmer when she had the chance?_

Catra sighs and sits up, a little annoyed (if her narrowed eyes are any tell). Instead of a pointed dig at Adora's anxiety, though, she says, "What's up with Sunshine Boy that's got you all worked up?"

Adora can't stop her jaw from dropping. No insult? Not even a drop of snark to frustrate and endear her at the same time?

"You look like an idiot right now." _Ah, there it is._ Adora can breathe again. "Just spill it. I know you're dying to." 

"It's... Glimmer." Catra nods as if she knows what Adora's talking about. "She's been acting weird lately. Bow's just worried about her, that's all."

"And it's all your fault somehow, right?"

Adora has no idea how to respond to that. In a way, it feels like Catra's just ripped her open at the seams for everyone to see, exposing her. Always hitting the beating heart of the issue with a silver bullet—how very Catra of her. 

"Hmm," she hums, blissfully unaware of Adora's inner turmoil. "So I guess jumping the fence is out of character for Sparkles these days."

_Wait, what?_

"What do you mean, jumping the fence?" Adora asks incredulously. 

Catra lazily points off into the distance, back into a corner where the fence line meets up with the woods. "Saw her climb it a few minutes ago while you were busy talking to Arrow Boy." She shrugs, completely unbothered by the bomb she'd just dropped in the conversation. "You should really tell her that sneaky isn't her style. She was literally the walking definition of suspicious." 

Adora feels her stomach twist into a knot _._ Why would Glimmer just go off on her own like that? 

"You're sure it was her?"

"Well, duh. She's kinda hard to miss." Adora stares deeply into Catra's eyes, trying to call her bluff. "Adora, you know I'm not lying. I've got perfect vision. I don't miss stuff like that."

Catra _was_ the best shortstop in their division, maybe even in the state as only a freshman. Her eyes saw everything on the field and the ball rarely got past her. So surely the same logic could be applied to this scenario as well.

"Shit." 

"What? You don't think Sparkles can take care of herself out there?" Her grin isn't comforting at all. "I 'oughta slap you on her behalf."

Adora lays it on her thick. "She hardly has any firearm experience."

A beat.

"Ah, fuck." 

Adora pulls her pistol out of her waistband behind her back and starts counting her rounds to relax her nerves, despite knowing for a fact she has a full magazine. She feels utterly responsible for Glimmer now, and without question she's going after her. She'll drag her back kicking and screaming if she has to. For herself, and for Bow. Not to mention Angella, who'd surely blow her stack if she caught wind of this. 

"Wait, you've been _armed_ this whole time?" Catra's wide eyes are fixed on her gun. "Even in the showers? How did I miss that." 

"I don't have time for this," Adora all but growls, marching off in the direction that Catra pointed to earlier. 

"Hey!" Catra runs up alongside her. "No cavalry? What about Bow?" 

"I need to fix this on my own, Catra." She reaches the fence line, taking note of how Bow's cameras conveniently miss recording this section during their rotation. "Of course she finds a damn blind spot."

"A blind spot?" Catra echoes. "Clever girl."

Adora doesn't answer, just starts climbing. 

"Adora—"

"Just stay put and out of trouble," Adora calls, not quite sticking the landing when she drops on the other side of the fence. She groans and brushes the dirt off her jeans. "I'll be back soon."

The sound of someone landing on their feet with ease nearly gives Adora whiplash. 

"Like hell am I letting my escort run off all by herself." At Adora's glare, Catra tacks on, "You're stuck with me, princess. Deal with it."

Adora sighs in defeat. "You're the worst."

Catra nods as if to say she knows and doesn't care. "You wouldn't happen to be hiding another piece under that jacket, would you? Or a knife. I'm not picky about what keeps me alive out here, just that I have something."

Despite the worry fogging her brain and unsettling her gut, Adora answers wryly, "Don't worry, I'll protect you." 

The jab hits, but Adora doesn't have the patience to regret it. 

A flash of insecurity crosses Catra's face before she forcefully removes it. "Oh, as if." 

They walk off into the woods together without another word.

* * *

Finding Glimmer is a lot easier than Adora expected. She left breadcrumbs everywhere for them in the form of empty food cans stacked on logs and old photo frames nailed to trees. There might as well have been a neon sign saying _"Trail to Find Glimmer Here"._

"Looks like Sparkles has been practicing." 

Catra's powers of deduction finally reach Adora like a thunk on the head. The layout of all the cans and picture frames comes into focus and spells out the answer clear as day:

Glimmer's set up her own shooting range for target practice. 

Ahead of them, a voice cries out in frustration. "Damn it!" 

Adora takes off through the brush without a second thought, and Catra isn't far behind. She breaks into a clearing and there's Glimmer holding a pistol equipped with a silencer in poor form, shooting at a soup can that rests unharmed on top of a tree stump.

She jumps at their sudden intrusion, eyes wide, and points the gun at them. 

Behind Adora, Catra shouts, "Don't shoot!" 

"Lower the gun, Glimmer," Adora adds, much calmer. 

Glimmer drops her aim. "What the hell are you guys doing here? I could've killed you!"

"Not with that piss poor shooting," Catra mumbles, despite having been held at gunpoint only a second ago. Leave it to her to pour gasoline on the already roaring fire. 

Glimmer scowls and her grip on the gun tightens. 

"We were looking for you," says Adora, stepping between them. "It's too dangerous to be out here by yourself. You know that."

"I'm _fine,"_ she insists. "I don't need a babysitter."

"Glimmer," Adora starts. "I'm worried about you. And Bow's so worried he's _moping."_ Glimmer's brows shoot up into her hairline. "He wants to know what's wrong. So do I. Please, talk to me."

Her shoulders sag. "It's just... how can I protect the people I care about or even myself if I can't shoot a damn gun?" She whips around to shoot at the can again, off by a foot at least. "Everyone treats me like I'm some kind of sissy princess whose _mommy_ keeps her under lock and key." Another shot, another miss. "I'm not weak!"

"Glimmer—"

"I already lost my dad. How the hell am I supposed to 'take over' if something happens to my mom?" she cries, shooting again. "The clinic's _my_ inheritance, _my_ responsibility, and I can't even shoot a freakin' gun right!" 

Adora's face softens. Glimmer's afraid of not living up to expectations—on that subject, Adora can relate wholeheartedly. 

"You're a lot of things, Sparkles," Catra cuts in, catching Adora by surprise. "But a crybaby shouldn't be one of them."

"You don't know anything about me," Glimmer spits.

Catra shrugs. "I know enough. You're the girl who drilled me with questions while I was half conscious, never giving me the benefit of the doubt. And you're also the girl who helped me cut my hair when you saw that I was... err, having a moment." Adora tilts her head at Catra curiously. "Somebody like that has a good mix of guts and heart. So don't sell yourself short, is all I'm saying."

Glimmer gapes at Catra, and Adora can only assume she is, too. Since when is Catra good at de-escalating situations like this when emotions are running high?

"I'll teach you how to shoot," Adora blurts out, trying to add her own two cents into the conversation. She can't be one-upped by Catra that easily.

Glimmer turns to her, eyes watering. "Really?"

"Yeah. Mara taught me the basics"—Catra startles at the name and Adora watches her hands ball into fists—"I can turn you into a good shot, no problem."

"Thank you," Glimmer says, sniffling. She wipes away some stray tears with her arm. "We should head back. I have to talk to Bow. I have to... apologize. Is he really moping?"

Adora nods. "He didn't even hug me back when I offered. He just... melted into it." Glimmer gasps. "He wasn't smiling, either. He looked kinda dead inside."

Glimmer claps her cheeks together, clearly distraught. "Oh no, I _broke_ Bow!"

Catra recovers from her haze just in time to say, "I think he'll bounce back. He's literally the type of guy that worships at the altar of forgiveness, so I think you're good."

At that, Glimmer and Adora look at each other and break into a fit of laughter. Catra stares at them, at a loss, and eventually starts laughing, too. 

With the tension between them dissipated, they begin their trek back to the clinic. The moment feels good, like Adora's made progress on two fronts—with Glimmer _and_ with Catra. Riding this high, she may have the guts to confront Catra about their conversation the other night. Maybe they can finally put the past behind them.

"Glimmer, watch out!" 

_Too late,_ says the universe, because Glimmer takes another step and her foot lands in the jaws of an old hunting trap. When it snaps close, the resounding cry of pain is like nails on a chalkboard in Adora's ears. 

"FUCK!" Glimmer drops her gun, kneeling to palm at the metal doom device crunching down on her ankle. "The hell is this here for?! Holy shit, it hurts!"

Adora drops to her knees quickly, already trying to pry the trap open with her bare hands. Glimmer whimpers as its teeth stutter in and out as Adora tries to find her grip. 

"Come on, come on," she utters under her breath. 

"Adora!" 

Her head snaps up at Catra's tone, and her eyes immediately land on a man only thirty yards away dressed in hunter's camouflage. He walks unsteadily, like a drunk who's gone through an entire case of beer. There's no gun in his hands, no weapons that she can see. He looks to be in his 40's, maybe older. She can't get a clean look from this distance.

"Help me," he crows, drawing closer, which doesn't seem right. If anybody needs help, it's them. It's probably _his_ trap Glimmer stepped into. 

"Adora, he's sick," Catra says.

This prompts Adora to look closer, and Catra's right—his clothes are drenched with sweat and his face is deathly pale. Her eyes widen with realization. He's _sick_ sick; he's carrying the virus. 

"Help me, please." 

Adora raises her gun. If he gets any closer, he could infect them all—the virus is highly contagious, too easy to pass on in close proximity. Not impossible _not_ to get it, but that’s a risk she can’t afford to take.

"Adora," Glimmer says, looking awfully pale herself and in a lot of pain. "Do it."

She gulps, finger brushing against trigger. _It's a mercy killing,_ she tells herself. She'll be putting him out of his misery. Still, the gun shakes in her hands. Memories from that day two years ago flood her mind, painting a clear picture of a teenage boy pointing a gun at her and pretending like he knew how to use it—knew how to shoot to kill when his eyes said the opposite. A bang, and the boy fell, and that's when Adora wakes up.

She hasn't killed anyone since. Injured, yes, but never shoot to kill. 

_"Please."_

A shot fires, but it's not from Adora's gun. 

Adora turns to Catra just as the man drops—a bullet between his eyes—and stares in shock at the steady grip she has on Glimmer's gun. No tremor, no hesitation. Catra takes a deep breath, exhales, and lowers the weapon down to her waist. On the outside, she looks at peace with what she's done; on the inside, Adora can't tell. Her eyes are filled with an emotion she can't quite put her finger on. 

"Don't worry about it," she says breathlessly, and Adora realizes Catra's acknowledging the way she froze up and didn't take the shot. It feels like a slap to the face. Adora opens her mouth to defend herself but—

"Guys, this really fucking hurts," Glimmer interrupts. Any rebuttal Adora has is put on hold for her sake. 

Together, Adora and Catra pull the trap's mouth open to release Glimmer's foot. It works, and Glimmer fumbles backwards, kicking the trap away with her good foot. 

"Motherfucker," Glimmer hisses as she cradles her ankle. It bit straight through her boot and dug in real good, piercing skin. There's no way she can just walk it off. 

Silently, she and Catra help Glimmer up and support her weight by slinging her arms up over their shoulders. They walk like that, slow and steady, until they reach the front gate. Adora figured there wasn't any point in trying to help Glimmer climb over the fence with her foot as bad as it is.

They're spotted and the flatbed is moved out of the way quickly. Adora appreciates the sense of urgency, considering what happened the last time she knocked on their front door with an injured girl in her arms.

In the middle of the entryway stands Angella, and she looks... well, Adora can't even find a word for it. Worried doesn't even come close. 

"Glimmer!"

They hobble through the open gate and right into Angella's waiting arms. Adora and Catra let Glimmer gently fall into her embrace, taking a step back to give mother and daughter some space. They finally acknowledge each other with a quick glance, but nothing more. Adora is still a bit shaken up over getting cold feet back there and doesn’t know what to say.

_“Don’t worry about it.”_

Adora shakes the memory away, ashamed. Leave it to Catra to get under her skin even with good intentions and no malice behind her words.

"I'm sorry if I made you worry," Glimmer mumbles into Angella's shoulder. "And I'm sorry for being such a brat lately. I'll be better, I promise."

"It's okay," whispers Angella, her voice warm and full of relief. Not a pinch of anger, which is a welcomed surprise. "I forgive you." 

"Adora and Catra," Glimmer continues. "They saved me. Both of them." The emphasis on _both_ is to shine the spotlight on Catra, and Adora is thankful for it. 

Angella looks up at them. "Thank you," she says, eyes brimming with tears. "Both of you."

Adora smiles. "Of course."

"Sure," Catra mumbles, clasping her arm over her stomach. Her eyes linger off to the side and her posture is guarded, uncomfortable. As if all the witty confidence she's shown throughout the day has completely abandoned her. Adora takes a mental note to ask about this later. 

"I think you'll fit in nicely here, Catra," Angella adds, and the weight of those words strikes Adora right in the chest—because Catra is _staying,_ she's earned her spot in Brightmoon. Adora would jump for joy if the moment wasn't so emotionally charged. 

But Catra doesn't seem to share her enthusiasm. She just nods shortly and stays quiet. 

Suddenly, Bow appears, breaking through the gathered crowd and looking absolutely winded, not to mention scared out of his mind. Adora can feel the panic radiating off of him in waves. His eyes land on Glimmer (like he’s hardwired to find her and _only_ her out of everyone here), and a tight gasp brushes past his lips at the sight of her foot. He stands there in shock like he wants to say something but doesn’t know what. 

Glimmer notices him, flinching out of her mother’s hold. "Bow?"

They have a silent conversation with just their eyes. Slowly, his panic dissolves, and something else takes its place. 

Bow moves swiftly and quietly, gently taking Glimmer into his arms. Hers find their home around his neck, and she instantly relaxes, face pressed against his chest. His eyes are so soft, so full of warmth and his love for her. Adora almost feels like she's intruding on something private even out in the open like this.

Bow carries Glimmer back to the clinic and Angella follows. The crowd disperses, and the trailer is moved back into place. Finally, the world catches up to her. 

"Catra," Adora says, ready to pull her into a hug. She's earned her keep and that's worth celebrating, right? Hugging is an appropriate thing to do, a proper reaction. Shouldn't hurt anyone. Adora turns to face her—only Catra isn't there. "Catra?"

Catra is ahead of her already, her stride hurried and dead-set on reaching the clinic. The image is eerily familiar to Adora, like when Catra used to march off with a huff when they were kids and she wanted space. Regardless, Adora rushes to catch up. Her hand is about to touch Catra's shoulder when she pivots and slaps it away. 

Adora startles. "Catra, what's wrong?" 

"Just leave me alone," she grumbles, but the anger behind it is watered down. She sounds choked up. 

"Tell me what's wrong," Adora quietly begs. Catra can't shut her out like this, not when it finally feels like they're beginning to make some kind of progress. "Please." 

"You can't _fix_ this, Adora," Catra hisses, and Adora flinches. Where is this coming from all of a sudden? "You're full of shit if you think you can."

"Catra, I don't understand."

"Nothing good _stays,"_ Catra stresses, fists clenched at her sides. Then, her eyes widen in some kind of epiphany. She takes a tentative step back, trying to rebuild her walls before they can crumble down—Adora hasn't seen her this vulnerable in a long time. "Just... piss off, will you? If you really care, you won't follow me. You'll leave me alone."

"Catra—"

"Please, Adora."

At Catra's desperate plea, her mouth fastens shut and her teeth assume their position by digging into her lip. Against everything in her screaming to reach out and comfort Catra—to prove that what they have is still good, still worth it—Adora lets her walk away. She watches Catra go until she disappears inside the clinic, and the moment stings, feels like a sharp punch to the gut. 

_"Nothing good **stays**."_

The words don't sit well in her heart. Catra's been broken somehow, and a part of Adora knows she delivered the first blow all those years ago when she left Catra alone in that house with Ms. Weaver. There’s no doubt in her mind. 

Adora has to fix it. She has to fix what she broke. No matter what Catra says, Adora isn't about to give up on her. On _them._ Unrequited feelings aside, she has no intentions of losing her best friend again. 

The weight of the world— _and_ Catra—rests on her shoulders now, and Adora refuses to buckle under it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow. Remember when I said not to expect long-winded chapters like this? Yeah... those were the days. Anyway, you'll notice I updated the chapter count; this is just to keep me on track so I don't get too carried away, so it's not exactly set in stone. I suck at outlining, but I'm pretty sure I understand plot (we all hope), and I don't want that to get lost in a big mess. 
> 
> As always, please send me some love. I just wrote over 10k words for you guys in a week's time (which was also very self-indulgent of me, yes, but that's not my point), the least you can do is write like a hundred or so to tell me what you think. Favorite lines, moments... hell, tell me your favorite Catra one-liner because her dialogue was STACKED this chapter. Point is, comments go a long way, guys. Seeing that view count go up can only do so much for a writer's motivation to keep going. 
> 
> Buuuuuut thanks for reading, folks. Until next time!


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